Division  FI  432 

Section  * - /' 


t 


GYPSYING  THROUGH 
CENTRAL  AMERICA 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/gypsyingthroughcOOcunn 


THE  AUTHOR  AXD  THE  PHOTOGRAPHER,  MAZATLAN. 

[Frontispiece. 


GYPSYING  THROUGH 
CENTRAL  AMERICA 

By  EUGENE  CUNNINGHAM 

With  Photographs  by 

NORMAN  HARTMAN 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
681  FIFTH  AVENUE 
1922 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

J.  D.  C. 

WHO  HAS  GONE  AHEAD 


ON 

THE  LONG  TRAIL 


(All  rights  reserved) 


FEINTED  IN  GKEAT  BRITAIN 


FOREWORD 


THE  narrative  following  is  tlie  chronicle  of  a trip 
conceived  in  restlessness,  planned  in  perversity 
(almost),  and  executed  in  genuine  enjoyment. 
Norman  Hartman  and  I had  talked  for  years  of  exploring 
some  land  not  too  well  known,  too  easy  of  access.  We 
considered  the  republics  of  Central  America  somewhat 
casually  at  first,  but  when  such  banana-republic  consuls 
as  we  could  locate  in  San  Francisco  dilated  upon  the 
difficulty — the  impossibility,  according  to  some  of  them 
— of  such  a journey  as  we  mentioned,  then  we  were 
sure  that  no  other  venture  would  suit  us. 

My  chronicle  is  the  unvarnished  account  of  our 
gypsying.  In  much  briefer  form  it  appeared  serially  in 
The  Wide  World  Magazine  last  year,  and  some  isolated 
incidents  have  been  treated  in  short  articles  for  various 
newspapers  and  magazines  during  the  past  fifteen 
months.  That  my  opinion  of  the  natives  of  the  Five 
Republics  will  be  in  part  disagreed  with  by  others  who 
know  these  lands  is  undoubted.  But  the  story  of  our 
experiences  may  throw  additional  light  upon  peoples 
and  countries  often  treated  as  opera  houffe. 

Eugene  Cunningham. 


San  Francisco,  California. 
February  1922. 


5 


CHAPTER 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I.  Into  Manana  Land  . . . . .13 

On  the  South’ aed  Track — Ashore  at  Pun- 
tarenas — Costa  Rica  versus  Mexico — Central 
American  Police — The  Queen  City — Among  the 
Horse-traders  — Tropical  Red-tape  — Pointing 
the  Horses  North — Where  Coffee  Grows — 
Esparta  in  Festival  Time 

II.  Jogging  through  the  Foothills  . . 41 

La  Union  Gold  Mine — A Mule  for  a Horse — 
Crossing  “ Monkey  Ford  ” — At  the  Rio 

Guasimal — Twisting  Trails — A Chinese  Pirate — 

Las  Juntas  and  the  Terrible  Turk — Trail  to 
Las  Canas — The  Policeman’s  Statistics — What 
the  Rats  did 

III.  Costa  Rican  Cattle-land  . . . .69 

Rafting  Mahogany  at  Bebedero — When  the 

“CONGOS”  ROARED COSTA  RlCAN  COWPUNCHING A 

Guanacaste  Town — Trading  Mounts  at  Liberia — 

Flat  on  the  Prairie — Chill  Welcome  at  Santa 
Rosa — A “ Typical,  Tropical  Tramp  ” — Customs 
Inspection  at  La  Cruz 

IV.  Country  of  Nicarao  the  Cacique  . . 95 

Sleeping  with  a “Toboba” — Across  the  Border 
at  Sapoa — Along  Lake  Nicaragua — Rivas,  William 
Walker’s  Capital — Road  to  Granada — Notes  on 
Nicaraguan  Hospitality — Wearing  the  Guns  Out- 
side— Granada  and  Good-bye  to  Edna — Nicara- 
guan Railway  Journey 

V.  Managuan  Idlings 124 

Capital  of  Nicaragua — Selling  “ Twopercent  ” 

— Walker,  “ The  King  of  the  Filibusters  ” 

— Native  Politics — Foreign  Colony  of  Managua — 
Mosquitoes  de  Luxe — Ready  for  the  Long 
Traverse — North  Again 
7 


8 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAG! 

VI.  Jungle  Trails  in  Nicaragua  . . . 137 

The  Chinandega  Train — Hatred  of  White 
Faces — Halt  at  Leon — A Chinandegan  Tenor — • 
Battling  Mosquito  Armies — Tortilla  Making  and 
History — On  Meeting  a “ Tigre  ” — Hacienda  Jote 
and  Hospitality — Red-tape  at  Playa  Grande — 

“ Gasolina”  of  Deliverance 

VII.  Salvadoran  Plains 166 

Across  Fonseca  in  a Sieve — La  Union  and 
Quarantine — Pros  and  Cons  of  La  Union — Notes 
on  Central  American  Trading — Zacatecoluca 
the  Unpronounceable — In  and  About  San  Salva- 
dor— More  Passports — “Fiesta”  means  “ Noise” 

— At  the  Mercy  of  “ El  Barbero  ” — “ Prettiest 
Town  in  Central  America” 

VIII.  Across  the  Roof  of  Salvador  . .193 

Pages  from  “ Gil  Blas  ” — Texistepeque  and  a 
Jest — Only  Horsemen  are  Gentlemen — Metapan 
at  Dawn — Out-walking  the  Mule-trains — Gun- 
play on  the  Inter-Republic  Trail — “ The  Last 
Frontier” — Adventure  in  the  “ Chiquimulin 
Country” — Scrambles  Up  and  Down  toward 
Chiquimula — Zacapa  at  Last 

IX.  The  Paris  of  Central  America  . . 236 

Notes  on  Missing  a Train — American  Club  Salon 
— Sunburned  Guatemala— Arrival  in  the  Capital 
— A Veteran  Soldier  of  Fortune — Revolution 
Simmers— We  become  Spies — The  Great  Unionist 
Demonstration  — Outward  Bound  — Puerto 
Barrios  and  a Steamer  Home 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Author  and  the  Photographer,  Mazatlan 

Frontispiece 

PACING  PAGE 

Market  Woman,  Mazatlan.  . . . .16 

Boatbuilder  too  busy  to  stop  for  the  Picture  . 24 

Horse  Fair,  San  Jose  .....  24 

Police  Brigade,  Puntarenas  . . . .28 

Saying  Good-bye  to  Mr.  Chase,  San  Jose  . . 28 

Old  English  Waterwheel,  Aguacate  Gold  Mine.  32 

Arturo  Brioschi,  the  Horse-trader,  La  Union  . 46 

Shy  Muchacho  and  Shyer  Dog,  Trail  to  Atenas  . 46 

Arturo  and  Young  Deer  caught  at  La  Union  . 50 

Two  “ Machos  ” and  Edna,  Trail  to  Guasimal  . 50 

Younger  Generation  of  Las  Juntas  ...  60 

Zopilotes  at  Pig-cleaning  in  a Backyard,  Las 

Juntas  ........  60 

Savoneras  (Cowboys)  on  Hacienda  Mojica  . . 74 

Deserted  Hut  where  we  spent  a Night,  near 

the  Nicaraguan  Frontier  . . . .74 

A “ Typical,  Tropical  Tramp  ” near  La  Cruz  . 92 

Some  of  the  Wearers  of  the  Ancient  Wooden 

Masks,  Nicaragua  . . . . .110 

Another  View  of  Masked  Celebrants,  Nicaragua  110 
Nicaraguan  Sentry  on  Duty,  Campo  del  Marte, 

Managua  .......  122 

Ancient  Mayan  Pottery  from  Ometepe  Island, 

Lake  Nicaragua 122 

Senora  Burgess  and  Tame  Javelina,  Hacienda 

Jote 146 

9 


10 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACHKQ  PAGE 

Tortilla  Making,  Hacienda  Jote  . . . 146 

Garrison  outside  Comandancia,  Chinandega.  Still 

Bullet- scarred  ......  152 

Poverty-stricken  Cabin  beside  Trail  to  Playa 

Grande  .......  152 

Photographer  and  Mica- snake  killed  in  Well, 

Playa  Grande  ......  158 

CoMANDANTE  AND  GARRISON,  PLAYA  GrANDE  . .158 

The  Church,  Masaya  . . . . . .164 

Younger  Generation,  Zacatecoluca  . . .176 

Mule-car,  San  Salvador 176 

Cadets’  Field-sports,  San  Salvador  . . .182 

Market-place,  San  Salvador  . . . .182 

Cuartel  (Military  Headquarters),  San  Salvador  186 
National  Theatre,  San  Salvador  . . . 186 

I climb  a Ninety-foot  Palm  at  La  Libertad  . 194 

Roadside  Bakery,  Santamicion  ....  208 

Grinding  Sugar-cane,  Hacienda  Zapote,  near 

Guatemalan  Frontier  . . . . .208 

Garrison  at  Concepcion.  Outside  Comandancia  . 238 

Charley  Swanson’s  “ American  Club  Salon,” 

Zacapa  ........  238 

One  of  the  Police  Force,  Salvador  . . . 242 

One  of  Cabrera’s  “ Hellcat  ” Infantrymen, 

Guatemala  .......  242 

Military  Academy  (also  House  of  Congress), 

before  Rebuilding,  Guatemala  City  . . 254 

Publishing  a “ Bando  ”.....  254 


Sketch-map  of  Central  America  . 


. p.  12 


GYPSYING  THROUGH 
CENTRAL  AMERICA 


CHAPTER  I 
INTO  MANANA  LAND 


On  the  South’ akd  Track — Ashore  at  Puntarenas— Costa  Rica 
versus  Mexico — Central  American  Police — The  Queen  City — 
Among  the  Horse- traders — Tropical  Red-tape — Pointing  the 
Horses  North — Where  Coffee  Grows — Esparta  in  Festival 
Time. 

ON  a cool,  grey  December  morning  we  followed  our 
luggage  down  to  San  Francisco’s  Embarcadero. 
The  pier  was  thronged  with  passengers  and 
idlers,  and  heaped  high  with  freight.  Through  narrow 
lanes  between  boxes  and  bales  chanting  stevedores 
pushed  their  trucks  up  to  the  yawning  cargo-ports  of 
the  steamer.  To  right  and  left  were  other  ships  at 
other  piers,  their  black  masts  stabbing  the  misty  sky, 
the  very  pencils  that  write  Adventure. 

Dawn  of  Christmas  Day  found  us  outside  the  coastal 
fog-belt,  steaming  close  to  the  low,  brown  hills  of  Cali- 
fornia, that  rise  abruptly  from  the  white  line  of  surf. 

One  Mexican  port,  one  Central  American  harbour, 
is  very  like  its  neighbour.  As  the  old  Para  stood  to 
south’ard  at  a dignified,  nine-knot  waddle,  we  became 
very  familiar  with  the  rumble  of  her  anchor  chain,  and 

13 


14  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

watched  but  listlessly  while  green  parrots,  tiny  parakeets, 
purple  and  scarlet  macaws  and  great  grey  jays  fluttered 
up  with  raucous  screams  from  palm-groves  along  the 
dazzling  beach. 

Always  there  was  a sunbrowned  white  man  or  two, 
exiles  of  commerce,  to  come  ofl  in  a shore-craft  and 
receive  a meagre  bundle  of  newspapers  and  letters. 
Then  the  thirtieth  day  after  departure  from  San  Fran- 
cisco found  us  coasting  a low,  sandy  shore.  In  early 
afternoon  the  Para  nosed  round  a squat  promontory 
and  her  anchor  splashed  in  the  green,  clear  waters  of  the 
Gulf  of  Nicoya.  We  stared  across  a scant  half-mile  of 
sunny  water  at  Puntarenas,  Pacific  port  of  Costa  Rica, 
a rambling  beach-town  that  might  have  been  lifted 
bodily  from  the  pages  of  Cabbages  and  Kings. 

All  along  the  narrow,  golden  crescent  of  wave-lapped 
beach  were  trees ; tall,  graceful  palms,  manzanillos — 
“ little  apples  ” — and  matapalas  with  glossy  green 
leaves.  Through  interstices  in  the  foliage  the  houses 
of  the  town  gleamed  white  in  the  sunlight.  Upon  the 
shore  a rambling  frame  building  was  proclaimed  “ hotel  ” 
by  a dingy  sign  upon  its  seaward  front.  Below  it,  a 
pagoda-shaped  bath-house  perched  on  tall  piles  over  the 
water,  flanked  by  a palisaded  swimming-enclosure. 

We  stood  guard  upon  our  baggage  until  a dapper 
youngster  in  white  ducks  and  military  cap  cast  a per- 
functory glance  at  our  passports.  The  Captain  of  the 
Port  Guard  was  followed  by  the  Port  Doctor,  who  exam- 
ined eyes  and  tongue,  then  with  a wave  of  the  hand 
pronounced  us  eligible  for  entry  into  Costa  Rica.  Our 
luggage  was  lowered  into  one  of  the  swarm  of  dugouts 
wheeling  and  turning  ofl  the  gangway;  the  pair  of 
swarthy,  half-naked  boatmen  dug  their  paddles  into 
the  water,  and  the  shoreline  leaped  forward  to  meet  us. 


ASHORE  AT  PUNTARENAS 


15 


Remembering  vividly  the  high  tariff  of  Mexico,  as 
published  in  the  ports  we  had  seen  coming  south,  we 
held  our  breath  as  the  customs  inspectors  pounced  upon 
the  bags  of  saddlery,  camp  equipment,  and  personal 
gear.  But  the  size  of  our  bags  seemed  to  appal  them. 
One  tapped  a bag  wearily. 

“ Personal  equipaje  ? ” he  inquired,  and  I nodded. 
It  was  personal  equipage. 

“ Bueno  ! No  examinar,”  said  Senor  Inspector  in  a 
relieved  tone. 

So  all  our  baggage  was  dumped  upon  the  scales, 
weighed  in  jigtime,  and  I stood  before  the  cashier,  a 
trifle  dazed,  gripping  a chit  for  one  colon  and  thirty- 
four  centavos.  Three  hundred-odd  pounds  of  highly 
dutiable  equipment  paid  duty  in  the  equivalent  of 
forty-seven  cents,  United  States  currency  ! 

Darkness  dropped  down  abruptly,  as  if  the  sun  had 
suddenly  been  blown  out.  Our  possessions  were  piled 
in  a room  of  the  Hotel  Europa  by  the  carriers,  and  we 
went  into  the  big  dining-room  overlooking  the  Gulf, 
where  the  rattle  of  crockery  was  muffled  by  the  wash 
of  waves  upon  the  sand  beneath  the  floor.  It  was  a 
most  eatable  meal,  from  watery  cabbage  soup  to 
excellent  cafe  negro. 

When  we  had  eaten  we  wandered  along  the  Esplanade, 
a stretch  of  concrete  sidewalk  skirting  the  beach,  with 
iron  benches  set  beneath  the  trees  beside  it.  The 
promenade  ended  at  the  bath-pavilion  on  the  pier,  and 
here  it  was  that  we  really  entered  Anchuria. 

With  darkness  had  come  a cool  breeze  from  the 
Gulf.  The  townspeople,  who  had  kept  to  the  shaded 
coolness  of  the  houses  during  the  torrid  afternoon, 
now  sauntered  slowly  through  the  streets.  White-clad 
couples  drifted  ghostlike  through  the  gloom,  to  pause 


16  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

beside  the  little  groups  seated  in  open  doorways,  or 
loaf  down  to  the  pavilion  where  tables  overlooked  the 
frothy  surf-fringe. 

In  the  shallow  enclosure,  guarded  by  the  palisades 
against  marauding  sharks,  the  younger  generation, 
nearly  nude,  splashed  and  laughed.  Their  elders 
occupied  themselves  with  talk,  and  tall  frosted  glasses 
of  limonada,  or  that  intriguing  cocktail  made  by  pouring 
brandy  and  other  things  into  a green  coco-nut  from 
which  the  end  has  been  chopped. 

As  we  strolled  back  toward  the  hotel  the  luminous 
yellow  moon  climbed  out  of  the  black  water  astern  of 
the  Para,  still  anchored  in  the  offing.  Beneath  the 
trees  outside  a tiny  drinking-place  were  set  tables,  and 
at  one  of  these  we  found  a couple  of  Americans.  We 
sat  with  them  for  a time,  listening  to  pages  from  the 
Book  of  the  Tropics,  with  the  subdued  tinkle  of  guitars 
and  low  voices  chanting  monotonous,  interminable 
melodies  coming  from  the  houses  along  the  street. 
Horse  and  mule  ; jungle-path  and  mountain- trail — so 
ran  the  talk  at  our  table  in  the  mellow  glare  from  an 
open  window  of  the  pulqueria. 

A horde  of  inch-long  cockroaches  disputed  possession 
of  our  cots  with  us.  As  we  routed  the  last  interloper 
the  Para’s  siren  bellowed  hoarsely,  and  we  watched  her 
crawl  seaward  with  the  line  of  her  lighted  cabins  shining 
like  the  windows  of  some  great  hotel.  With  her  going 
was  snapped  our  last  tie  with  the  States ; we  stood  in 
the  anteroom  of  the  tropics ; to-morrow  the  door 
would  swing  wide  at  our  touch. 

Breakfast,  in  Central  America,  comes  at  noon,  but 
from  six  to  nine  is  “ desayuno  ” — “ the  first  meal  ” — 
when  the  native  breaks  his  fast  with  coffee  and  unsalted 
wheaten  bread.  We  sat  at  a table  looking  over  the 


MARKET  WOMAN,  MAZATLAN. 


16] 


BREAKFAST  AT  PUNTARENAS  17 

water  at  seven-thirty,  with  a bushy-whiskered  mozo 
smiling  widely  upon  us. 

“ Am-er-ee-cans  ? ” he  inquired.  We  nodded. 

“Si,”  I said.  “ Porque — why  ? ” 

But  he  had  scurried  kitchenward,  and  when  he 
reappeared  he  balanced  a great  tray  from  which  came 
oranges,  greenish  yellow  and  peeled,  each  skewered  upon 
a fork,  with  bacon,  eggs  and  toast  and  coffee-pot.  He 
beamed  upon  us. 

“ Brek-fuss  ! ” he  announced  triumphantly.  “ White 
— mans — eat-mooch  ! ” 

He  waved  his  hands  and  shrugged  smilingly,  as  if 
conceding  the  right  of  the  paler  race  to  consume  a full 
meal  in  the  dawning.  Norm,  meanwhile,  was  investi- 
gating the  coffee-pot,  which  he  found  to  contain  only 
hot  milk. 

“ But  the  coffee,  hornbre  ! ” I protested. 

He  smiled  reassuringly,  and  raised  his  apron  to  fish 
from  a southern  pocket  a pint  whisky  flask.  With  an 
expression  as  of  one  unfolding  deep,  dark  mysteries,  he 
poured  into  our  cups  an  inch  or  so  of  inky  cofEee  extract, 
then  filled  the  cups  a-brim  with  hot  milk  and  pushed 
the  sugar  toward  us.  When  he  moved  to  replace  the 
bottle  in  its  hiding-place  Norm  shot  out  a dextrous 
hand  and  captured  it. 

“ Don’t  trouble,”  said  Norm  blandly.  “ I’ll  take 
charge  of  the  obsequies.” 

When  one  is  newly  come  from  the  chaos  and  filth 
that  is  Mexico  to-day,  has  experienced  on  almost  every 
side  the  hatred  and  distrust  of  a white  face  which  in 
that  unfortunate  land  is  either  openly  displayed  or  hid 
beneath  a thin  mask  of  servility  prompted  by  greed  for 
foreign  dollars,  the  cheerful  friendliness  of  the  Costa- 
ricense  is  welcome  indeed.  We  occupied  our  morning 
2 


18  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

in  exploring  Puntarenas,  and  it  was  our  ramble-tour 
which  prompts  the  above  statement. 

The  town,  we  found,  boasts  a population  of  five  thou- 
sand, but  conceals — conversationally,  at  least — existence 
of  the  worst  climate  in  all  of  Costa  Rica.  The  early 
morning  and  late  evening  hours  are  the  only  agreeable 
portions  of  the  day,  for  the  white  beach  at  other  times 
fairly  radiates  the  intense  sunlight,  and  back  upon  the 
town  sweeps  a palpable  wall  of  heat  unrelieved  by  any 
breeze.  There  can  have  been  only  scant  change  in  the 
place  in  the  past  quarter-century  ; a rickety  electric 
plant,  a small  water-system  and  a smaller  ice  factory — 
these  are  the  only  modern  touches. 

Outside  the  market-place,  along  the  near-by  streets, 
the  native  women  still  keep  tiny  street-restaurants  like 
those  of  Mexico,  but  cleaner — far  cleaner  ! At  these 
little  booths  plantains — the  big  brothers  of  the  banana 
— boiled,  fried  and  roasted  ; bananas,  oranges,  pine- 
apples and  coco-nuts  ; chickens,  tortillas — flat  commeal 
cakes — and  boiled  rice,  white  cheese  and  queer  sweet- 
meats are  cooked  and  eaten  on  the  spot. 

Looking  back  upon  our  time  in  Puntarenas,  it  seems 
to  me  that  in  no  other  place  I have  ever  visited  were 
the  police  so  omnipresent,  yet  so — so  non-apparent,  to 
employ  a paradoxical  figure  that  best  expresses  my 
recollection.  There  was  a half-brigade  of  dusky,  bare- 
footed little  men  in  khaki ; every  street  comer  had  its 
guardian  ; ever  and  anon  a blaring  of  bugles,  a deafening 
boom  of  drums,  announced  the  ceremony  of  guardmount. 
Yet  we  never  saw  a man  arrested,  were  never  recipients 
of  other  than  amiable,  half-apologetic  smiles  from  any 
member  of  the  “ Force.” 

We  visited  the  Cuartel — combination  military  post 
and  jail,  for  in  Central  America  the  police  force  is  a 


CENTRAL  AMERICAN  POLICE 


19 


national  institution — and  asked  permission  to  photo- 
graph the  force.  Don  Arturo  Araya,  Assistant  Com- 
mandant, requested  us  to  return  in  the  afternoon.  We 
fancied  the  delay  was  made  to  give  him  time  to  consult 
higher  authority,  so  we  bowed  and  departed. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  we  had  done  “ breakfast  ” at 
the  Europa,  we  strolled  toward  the  Cuartel.  The 
drowsy  quiet  of  midday  rested  upon  all  the  town ; we 
were  almost  the  only  persons  on  the  streets.  But  it 
wasn’t  entirely  the  hush  of  siesta- time  that  marked  the 
atmosphere  of  strangeness  we  felt ; it  was  that  subtle 
difference  one  marks  with  the  absence  of  a familiar 
object.  Then  Norm  stopped  short. 

“ The  police  ! ” he  cried.  “ Where  are  they  this 
afternoon  ? ” 

Then  I realized  that  we  had  come  a dozen  squares 
without  sight  of  a single  dusky  guardian  of  the  peace. 
At  the  Cuartel  the  phenomenon  was  explained  ; the 
entire  Puntarenas  brigade,  in  dress  uniform  and  headed 
by  Don  Arturo  and  his  tenientes — lieutenants — in  cere- 
monial blue  and  scarlet,  waited  to  be  photographed. 
More  amenable  subjects  I have  never  seen — even  in 
Central  America. 

We  were  up  before  the  dawn  on  our  third  day  in 
Puntarenas,  for  the  daily  train  to  San  Jose,  like  an  old 
hand  at  tropical  journeying,  leaves  for  the  capital  at 
six.  The  porter  volunteered  to  handle  our  luggage, 
and  called  in  a half-dozen  hombres  to  help  him.  We 
watched  bags  and  suitcases  go  creaking  through  the 
darkness  to  the  station,  piled  high  on  an  ox-cart,  then 
sat  down  to  coffee  and  cigarettes. 

At  the  station  was  a chattering  throng  wandering 
about  the  waiting-room.  Barefooted  peones,  machetes 
dangling  from  broad  belts,  were  all  about  us.  They 


20  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

bore  in  woven-grass  alforjas — saddle-bags — across  their 
shoulders  food  for  the  journey ; oranges,  bananas, 
coco-nuts,  sugarcane,  tortillas.  Whole  families  panted 
in  thus  burdened,  or,  if  “ calzados”  the  “ shoe-wearing 
class,”  followed  by  a brawny  mozo  grunting  beneath  the 
impedimenta  of  the  entire  group. 

The  ferrocarril  connecting  Puntarenas  with  San  Jose 
is  Government- owned — and  looks  it.  All  the  tracks 
in  Central  America  are  of  the  narrow-gauge  persuasion, 
but  not  all  the  locomotives — thanks  be — burn  wood. 
We  settled  in  an  American-style  coach  of  fairly  modem 
type,  to  watch  the  other  passengers  embark,  native  way. 

For  a mile  or  more  out  of  Puntarenas  the  glassy  Gulf, 
just  reddened  at  the  far  edge  by  the  rising  sun,  was  on 
our  right.  On  the  other  hand  we  skirted  the  broad, 
sluggish  Eio  Barranca,  walled  in  on  the  opposite  bank 
by  green,  cool  jungle.  Farther  on  coco-palms  and 
plantations  of  bananas  and  plantains  began  to  appear 
beside  the  track  as  the  jungle  thinned ; horses  and 
cattle  grazed  in  flat,  green  pastures. 

At  all  stations — and  they  were  legion — we  were  be- 
sieged by  troops  of  children  vending  oranges,  bananas, 
fruit  of  the  prickly  pear  cacti,  cheese  sandwiches  of 
unmistakable  lustiness,  tortillas  rolled  into  cylinders  and 
filled  with  chopped  meat,  grated  cheese  and  chilis , the 
tiny,  fiery  red  pepper  so  beloved  of  the  native.  Old 
women,  bearing  steaming  pots  and  little  cups,  filed  up 
and  down  the  aisle  offering  “ Cafe  ! Cafe  ! ” in  funereal 
wails. 

At  nine-fifteen  came  the  event  of  the  trip — we  met 
the  down-train  at  Escobal.  The  engineers  halted  each 
his  engine  so  that  passengers  on  either  train  might  chat 
for  a time  through  the  coach-windows  with  their 
acquaintances.  Then  we  moved  on. 


21 


IN  THE  TRAIN  FOR  SAN  JOSE 

Twisting  and  turning,  writhing  almost  back  upon 
itself  at  times,  but  ever  climbing,  the  track  skirted  the 
flanks  of  the  wooded  Cordilleras,  affording  magnificent 
vistas  across  deep,  forested  gorges  and  broad,  smiling 
valleys,  where  one  caught  sight  of  the  thatched  hut  of 
a woodcutter  or  pecm-farmer  nestling  in  a tiny,  emerald- 
floored  clearing,  or  clinging  desperately  to  an  out-thrust 
shoulder  upon  a sheer  slope. 

The  air  was  wine-like,  crystal-clear  ; the  sky  behind 
the  fleets  of  woolly  cirrus  clouds  of  the  deepest,  softest, 
fairy  blue.  Distances  were  marvellously  diminished  ; 
it  seemed  that  one  might  stretch  out  a casual  arm  and 
touch  the  dollish  figures  before  the  tiny  cabins — a mile 
or  so  away  across  a yawning  canon. 

After  the  intense  midday  heat  of  the  seaboard  the 
cool  breeze  of  the  highlands  was  very  welcome — but  it 
had  drawbacks.  Through  the  open  windows  of  the 
coach — everyone,  regardless  of  sex,  was  puffing  at 
cigar  or  cigarette — came  showers  of  sparks  from  the 
locomotive-stack,  threatening  to  set  the  train  ablaze. 
Then  we  noticed  the  conductor’s  orthodox  blue  serge 
coat  to  be  pitted  and  scarred  from  many  trips. 

Observing  a staid,  dignified  caballero  in  the  seat  ahead 
of  us  to  come  suddenly  to  his  feet  and  commence  spirited 
oration,  his  very  mustachios  aquiver  with  earnestness, 
I abandoned  notebook  to  learn  the  reason  for  his 
staccato  Spanish.  Then  the  orator’s  seatmate  rose  also, 
to  slap  out  a merry  blaze  in  his  companion’s  shirt. 

Shortly  before  noon,  with  a triumphant  squeal  from 
the  engine  whistle,  the  train  pulled  into  San  Jose, 
“ Queen  of  Central  American  Cities.”  Here  we  dis- 
embarked : the  priests,  the  prosperous  merchants,  the 
well-to-do  farmers  with  their  families ; Englishmen, 
Germans,  Italians,  Frenchmen,  a half-dozen  Americans. 


22  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

Like  every  other  Central  American  station  of  our 
experience,  that  of  San  Jose  was  about  as  sleepily  quiet 
as  a boiler  factory.  The  bootblacks,  a small  army  in 
themselves,  with  their  eternal  wail  of  “ Limpio ! 
Limpio  ! ” (“  Clean  ! Clean  ! ”) ; the  men  who  implored 
permission — at  the  tops  of  their  voices — to  carry  our 
baggage  ; the  cocheros  who  would  not  be  gainsaid,  but 
strove  to  hustle  us,  willy-nilly,  into  their  rickety 
carriages ; the  train  guards,  whose  official  positions 
required  much  authoritative  shouting ; the  passengers, 
greeting  and  being  greeted  by  their  friends  across  the 
station — all  contributed  their  quota  to  the  din.  It  was 
with  strained  ear-drums  that  we  escaped  to  outside  air 
and,  with  a tattered  urchin  following  with  our  hand 
baggage,  leaped  into  the  nearest  coach  and  headed  for 
the  Hotel  Gran  Fran9aise. 

Our  memories  of  San  Jose  will  ever  be  pleasant.  The 
capital,  set  upon  a tableland  nearly  a mile  above  sea- 
level,  greets  the  visitor  with  a temperate  climate  the 
year  round.  Winter  and  summer,  in  the  tropics,  are 
replaced  by  dry  and  rainy  seasons,  the  rain  commencing 
usually  in  April,  continuing  until  November,  with  the 
heaviest  downfall  in  September  and  October.  But  even 
during  these  stormy  months  the  mornings — in  San  Jose 
— are  beautifully  clear. 

As  in  most  Latin  countries,  here  the  bulk  of  the 
army  is  posted  near  the  seat  of  government.  One 
must  believe  that  promotion  in  the  Costa  Rican  army 
is  very  rapid.  Few  of  the  two  thousand-odd  barefooted, 
denim-clad  soldados  are  below  the  rank  of  colonel,  and 
once  we  saw  four  generals  in  a single  stroll  about  Central 
Plaza.  We  observed,  I admit,  a few  mere  sergeants  and 
corporals,  but  these  were  evidently  very  raw  recruits, 
ostentatiously  snubbed  by  the  remainder  of  El  Ejercito. 


THE  HORSE  MARKET  AT  SAN  JOSE  23 

Up  and  down  the  narrow,  cobbled  streets  squeal  the 
brilliantly  painted  ox-carts,  drawn  by  placid-eyed  steers 
and  guided  by  sturdy,  sandalled  Jiombres.  Mule-carts 
are  as  common  as  the  ox- wains  and  as  bright  of  hue. 
But  there  is  a difference  in  the  appearance  of  the 
drivers ; where  the  ox-driver’s  machete  hangs  to  the 
yoke  between  the  bullocks’  heads,  the  mulatero’s  weapon 
swings  at  a cocky,  you-be-blowed  angle  from  a broad 
belt  of  many  buckles  about  his  waist.  Something  of  a 
swaggerer  is  the  mulatero. 

Coches  drawn  by  one  or  two  ribby  horses  at  breakneck 
gallop  whirl  around  corners  and  thread  their  way 
without  check  among  the  other  vehicles  and  the 
pedestrians  with  which  the  streets  are  crowded.  Each 
cochero  keeps  up  a frantic  honking  on  the  automobile 
horn  which  is  the  standard  equipment  for  vehicles  of 
every  sort  in  San  Jose. 

We  rose  betimes  on  the  second  morning  in  the  capital, 
springing  out  of  the  shell  of  blankets  and  spare  clothing 
with  which  wre  had  encased  ourselves,  turtle-wise, 
against  the  keen  night  air  of  the  plateau.  Our  destina- 
tion was  the  horse  market,  and  in  the  tropics  business 
is  chiefly  transacted  in  the  cool  hours  of  early  morning. 

After  coffee  we  engaged  Willy,  Jamaican  boy-of-all- 
work  at  the  Frangaise,  and  set  out  for  the  Feria  de 
Ganado — the  “ Horse  Fair  ” — lying  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  capital.  This  is  an  enclosure  of  perhaps  ten  acres, 
with  a great  stone-floored  shed  in  the  centre  for  dickering 
in  the  rainy  weather.  To  this  spot  on  Saturday  morning 
repairs  every  farmer  and  horse-coper  of  the  neighbour- 
hood owning  a nag  able  to  navigate,  to  commit — in 
intent,  at  least — robbery  without  arms. 

The  field  was  covered  with  men  and  horses  when  we 
arrived.  Not  since  my  days  in  the  stockyards  of  Fort 


24  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

Worth  had  I seen  so  many  animals.  We  wandered  up 
and  down  with  Willy,  pricing  horse  after  horse.  The 
owners,  after  one  glance  at  our  white  collars — unmis- 
takable signs  of  wealth,  these — flicked  the  ashes  from 
their  cigarettes  with  careless  mien  and  murmured  sums 
that  sounded  like  shrewd  guesses  at  the  cost  of  the 
Great  War.  Willy  finally  informed  us,  quite  super- 
fluously, that  horses  and  mules  were  said  to  be  “ muy 
caro  ” — very  dear. 

Once  we  were  identified  as  prospective  purchasers, 
down  upon  us  swooped  the  dealers,  sombreroed,  mus- 
tachioed hombres  in  denim  trousers  and  fringed  leather 
leggings,  with  huge  spurs  strapped  to  broad,  bare  feet. 
They  sat  their  little  mounts  like  Cossacks  or  Texas 
waddies,  came  galloping  decrepit  nags  up  to  us  to  cry 
exorbitant  prices,  mingling  with  their  demands  fulsome 
praise  of  the  poor  skeleton  in  question. 

After  an  hour  of  this  aimless  wandering  a dealer 
dashed  across  the  field,  slid  to  a halt  in  mid- gallop  at 
my  shoulder  and  invited  me  to  mount.  She  was  a 
nervous  little  bay  mare,  but  clean-limbed  and  just 
turning  seven  years,  so  I swung  into  the  flat  cowhide 
saddle. 

Like  most  Central  American  nags,  she  was  a “ spur- 
horse,”  requiring  the  rowel  to  govern  her.  My  heels 
were  unarmed,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  yard  she  began 
to  fight  for  her  head,  rearing  and  bucking  alternately, 
to  the  vast  delight  of  the  onlookers,  who  desired  nothing 
more  than  sight  of  a proud  macho — American — flat  in 
the  dust.  But  the  little  mare  had  nothing  new  in  her 
repertoire,  and,  though  she  bucked  and  squealed  alarm- 
ingly, quieting  her  was  more  spectacular  than  difficult. 

The  dealer  asked  only  two  hundred  colones  for  the 
mare.  According  to  his  modest  claims,  she  was  without 


24] 


25 


AMONG  THE  HORSE-TRADERS 

mark  or  blemish,  of  illustrious  lineage,  raised  a pet  of 
the  family,  accustomed  to  dining  with  the  children  ; 
she  shivered  at  a harsh  word,  whinnied  at  the  back-door  of 
Saturday  nights  for  her  bath  and  must  never  be  taken 
into  the  rain  without  her  overshoes.  So  I offered 
colones  one  hundred  forty  for  the  paragon  ; he  countered 
by  demanding  one  hundred  eighty.  A deadlock  ensued, 
then  he  wiped  his  eyes  at  thought  of  his  hungry  children 
and  accepted  colones  one  hundred  fifty-five. 

Norm,  meanwhile,  had  acquired  a rangy,  hammer- 
headed grey-blue  brute  for  colones  two  hundred  forty. 
This  horse  looked  strong  enough  to  bear  Norm’s  near 

two  hundred  pounds,  but  appearances However, 

Azulero,  as  they  named  the  grey,  figures  hereafter. 
Next  came  the  villain  of  our  equine  comedy  ; we  still 
lacked  a pack-horse,  and  so  inspected  all  the  older  nags 
on  the  lot.  At  last,  for  just  half  the  hundred  fifty 
colones  originally  demanded,  we  bought  a hoary,  sad- 
faced white  caballo. 

With  a self-important  urchin  aboard  Blanco,  the 
pack-horse,  and  leading  the  other  animals,  we  turned  to 
leave  the  market.  But  the  gateman  performed  a 
Thermopylae,  with  many  gestures  and  burning  language. 
Like  the  villain  in  the  melodrama,  he  demanded,  “ The 
Papers ! The  Papers  ! ! ” At  last  it  was  discovered 
that  he  must  see  bills  of  sale  on  the  three  nags  before 
we  might  take  them  away.  So  Willy  went  in  search 
thereof. 

Willy  drifted  back  at  last  with  the  vendors  of  the 
saddle-stock  and  the  report  that  the  guileless  young 
man  who  had  unloaded  Blanco  had  disappeared.  So 
we  went  before  an  official  in  the  market-office  and 
executed  formal  bills  of  sale. 

The  seller  is  supposed  to  pay  the  twenty-five  centavo 


26  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

tax  on  these  documents,  and  Jose  Montra,  vendor  of 
Azulero,  produced  the  fee  without  comment,  But 
Pedro  Campos,  responsible  for  my  ownership  of  the  red 
mare,  was  made  of  sterner  stuff — or  had  been  longer  at 
the  game  perhaps.  He  refused  to  pay  the  tax ; remained 
obdurate  under  Willy’s  most  eloquent  appeals.  Much 
to  Willy’s  disappointment — he  was  barely  warmed  up — 
I laid  down  a billete  of  the  required  denomination. 
Campos  departed,  pursued  into  the  hazy  distance  by 
the  choicest  wildflowers  of  Willy’s  large  and  colourful 
vocabulary. 

Then,  to  preserve  some  semblance  of  record  in  the 
case  of  Blanco,  the  official  drew  up  a weird  document, 
whereby  it  was  made  clear  that  I,  having  attained  my 
majority  by  accident  of  birth  within  the  United  States 
and  subsequent  premeditated  travel  in  the  great  and 
sovereign  Republic  of  Costa  Rica,  had,  in  the  absence 
of  the  animal’s  legitimate  and  lawful  owner,  sold,  vended 
and  disposed  of  said  caballo  bianco,  of  age,  ancestry, 
appetite  and  disposition  unknown,  to  myself. 

Regretting  that  such  had  not  really  been  the  case, 
so  that  I could  have  made  myself  reduce  the  price  to 
me,  but  considering  such  a document  cheap  at  the 
price  demanded,  I crossed  the  resourceful  official’s  palm 
with  silver  and  we  left  the  market. 

A month — or  longer — in  the  Queen  City  might  be 
pleasantly  idled  away,  if  one  but  cared  to  stroll  and 
look  and  listen.  We  regretted  that  our  animals  were 
eating  us  into  involuntary  bankruptcy  and  so  making 
necessary  a speedy  departure  from  this  colourful  city 
of  the  table-land.  But  the  trail  beckoned  ; we  prepared 
for  speedy  inspanning. 

When  I think  of  the  official  red-tape  of  those  miniature, 
half-savage  countries,  I am  always  reminded  of  a verse 


TROPICAL  RED-TAPE  27 

of  Berton  Braley’s,  read  with  keen  appreciation  since 
my  return  : 

“ Do  you  figure  for  a moment  the  trouble  and  the  fret 
Which  a traveller  to-day  must  undergo  ? 

All  the  passports  and  the  papers  and  the  visas  you  must  get, 

All  the  bureaucratic  satraps  and  officials  to  be  met, 

And  the  bothers  and  delays  that  you  must  know  ? ” 

Thanks  to  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Chase,  the  American 
Consul,  we  easily  secured  permits  to  carry  firearms, 
and  visas  from  the  Honduran  and  Nicaraguan  Consuls- 
General.  More  and  more  it  was  brought  to  us  that  the 
journey  we  contemplated  was  highly  unusual.  Some 
kindly  old-timer  walked  out  of  his  way  almost  daily  to 
tell  us  that  the  trip  was  practically  impossible — at 
least,  without  a trusty  guide.  So  Norm  grinned.  . . . 

Sunday  morning,  as  the  church  bells  were  ringing  out 
on  the  peaceful  air,  we  entered  the  market-place  in 
search  of  an  aparejo — a pack-saddle.  The  market  was 
jammed  with  people  making  their  weekly  purchases, 
and  we  stopped  to  watch  with  keen  interest.  For 
anywhere  in  Latin  America  the  simplest,  surest  way  of 
learning  the  true  economic  condition  of  Pedro  is  to 
study  him  at  his  marketing. 

Here,  as  in  Puntarenas,  we  saw  no  sign  of  the  hopeless, 
bitter  poverty  seen  everywhere  in  Mexico.  Before  the 
little  shops  that  lined  the  walls,  housing  saddlers  and 
leather-workers,  tobacconists,  grocers  and  butchers, 
poultry  dealers,  wickerware  vendors  and  makers  of 
pottery,  moved  sandalled  men  and  barefooted  women, 
children  with  tiny  replicas  of  their  parents’  saddle-bags, 
a voluble,  good-humoured  throng,  well  supplied  with  the 
colon  billetes  of  the  republic. 

These  are  the  richest  poor  people  I have  ever  seen  ; 
the  native  buys  more  for  his  easily  got  colon  than  an 


28 


INTO  MANANA  LAND 


American  gets  for  five  dollars.  Nor  need  the  penniless 
man  go  hungry  in  Costa  Rica,  so  long  as  he  owns  or  can 
borrow  a machete.  In  the  jungles  are  plantains, 
bananas,  coco-nuts,  pineapples  and  other  fruits,  while 
if  the  mozo  has  a gun,  there  are  deer,  monkeys,  wild  pig 
and  feathered  game  galore  for  his  hunting. 

For  thirty- two  colones  Norm  produced  an  aparejo 
which  was  the  Orphant  Annie  of  packsaddles,  a Miracle 
of  Improvisation,  but  serviceable.  By  twilight  it  was 
done  and  we  went  down  to  comida,  the  evening 
meal,  which  had  always  so  many  courses  that  those 
beyond  number  six  still  form  uncharted  ground  for 
our  appetites. 

From  our  window  in  the  Gran  Fran9aise  we  com- 
manded a magnificent  vista  of  the  Cordilleras,  the  steep 
scarps  of  which  almost  encircle  the  capital.  There  was 
a bird’s-eye  view  from  this  window  of  a long,  gradual 
slope,  chequered  with  woodland  and  cultivated  plain 
in  varying  shades  of  green,  with  here  and  there  a patch 
of  sombre  brown  to  mark  the  natural  hue  of  the  earth. 
Jagged  peaks  thrust  up  against  the  horizon,  their  crests 
blanketed  with  masses  of  snowy  cirrus  cloud,  fleecy- 
edged  and  turned  to  shell  pink  and  mauve  and  gleaming 
yellow  gold  with  the  setting  of  the  sun.  Irazu,  the 
volcano,  is  for  ever  grumbling  and  panting.  When  the 
cloud-curtain  rolls  back  to  expose  the  crater,  an  immense 
pillar  of  smoke  and  steam  hangs  apparently  motionless 
above  it,  snow-white  against  a sky  blue  as  that  of 
Naples. 

On  Monday  afternoon  we  shipped  our  civilized  garb 
to  San  Jose  de  Guatemala,  then  gathered  our  outfit 
about  us  on  the  floor  of  our  room  and  packed  clothing, 
cooking  utensils,  film-rolls  and  cartridges  into  two 
canvas  dunnage  bags.  The  morrow  would  see  us 


POLICE  BRIGADE,  PCNTARENAS. 


SATING  GOOD-BYE  TO  MR.  CHASE,  SAN  JOSE. 


28] 


HEADING  NORTH’ ARD 


29 


heading  north’ard  ; neither  of  us  knew  what  waited 
around  the  first  crook  of  the  trail.  So  we  whistled 
contentedly  as  we  lashed  tight  the  mouths  of  the  bags 
and  crawled  beneath  our  blankets  at  ten  o’clock. 
“ Something  lost  behind  the  ranges  . . .” 

Our  single-girthed  stock-saddles  had  been  equipped 
with  the  cruppers  universally  used  in  Central  America, 
where  much  mountain  work  is  expected  of  horses.  So, 
upon  arrival  at  the  stable  at  dawn,  we  had  only  to 
saddle  up,  cinch  the  aparejo  across  Blanco’s  sagging 
spine  and  diamond-hitch  the  pack  upon  it.  We  prodded 
Blanco  forward  and  clattered  out  and  down  the  cobbled 
street,  with  a shouting  train  of  small  boys  accompany- 
ing, led  by  our  faithful  friend,  the  “ King  of  the  Boot- 
blacks.” 

“ Where’s  your  guide  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Chase,  when 
we  halted  before  the  Consulate  to  bid  him  good-bye. 

“ Don’t  want  to  be  bothered  with  one.  We’ll  ask 
the  way,”  grinned  Norm. 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  resignation. 

“ Well,”  he  told  us,  “ I’ll  be  looking  for  an  * S.O.S.’ 
from  two  babes  in  the  wood  by  day  after  to-morrow. 
They’ll  surely  be  shipwrecked  by  that  time.” 

Once  upon  the  broad  savannah  beyond  the  town  the 
“ first  day  out  ” troubles  commenced.  Edna,  the  red 
mare,  was  possessed  of  seventy-seven  devils  of  per- 
versity, and  Norm’s  mount,  also,  had  been  rejuvenated 
by  his  vacation  in  the  stable.  When  I heard  long, 
lurid  sentences  ending  with  “ Victor,”  I could  only 
surmise  that  the  big  grey  reminded  my  companero  of 
someone  he  had  known,  but  had  failed  to  love. 

Blanco  was  loath  to  start  a-travelling  ; we  must 
secure  him  by  the  lead-rope  to  a saddle  horn,  while  one 
of  us  followed  wielding  a quirt.  Under  such  coercion 


30  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

did  he  permit  himself,  though  with  many  bubbling, 
camel-like  groans,  to  be  dragged  a-spraddle  over  the 
sunny  face  of  Costa  Rica. 

At  noon  we  came  to  a fork  in  the  trail,  a noble  fork 
of  four  tines.  Since  trails  down  there  lead  usually  in 
the  most  unlikely  directions,  we  paused  for  language. 
Blanco  utilized  the  halt  to  rub  his  pack  askew  against 
a thorny  tree,  almost  the  first  token  of  voluntary 
activity  he  had  displayed  that  day.  Then  a passing 
'peon  squatted  on  the  ground  to  sketch  a map  of  the 
trail  to  Esparta,  and  we  collected  Blanco  and  rode  on. 

The  way  led  during  the  afternoon  through  the  thickly 
settled  coffee  country  ; little  thatched  huts  were  every- 
where. Troops  of  half-naked  and  dirty  children  played 
with  the  dogs,  the  pigs  and  chickens  in  the  roadway. 
In  the  fields  of  the  coffee  fincas  women  and  children 
stripped  the  low  trees  of  their  red,  holly-like  berries 
and  upon  tarpaulins  beside  the  road  spread  the  coffee 
to  dry  in  the  sun. 

Every  man,  woman  and  child  we  met  gave  us  smiling 
buenas  tardes — good  afternoon — as  we  passed.  We  were 
to  find  this  courtesy  to  wayfarers  universal  throughout 
Costa  Rica ; natives  of  high  and  low  degree  alike 
greeted  us  with  smile  and  word  as  we  overtook  them  on 
the  trails. 

Sunset  came  as  we  rode  through  San  Antonio,  a tiny 
whitewashed  hamlet ; a riot  of  brazen  clouds,  lined 
with  silver  and  old  rose  and  lavender,  fading  to  an 
opalescent  haze  upon  the  mountains  ; then  the  finger- 
nail moon  shone  high  above  our  heads.  We  jogged  on 
silently  for  an  hour,  then  pitched  camp  beside  the  road 
and  built  a tiny  fire.  On  such  occasions,  never  a flower 
I have  known  can  match  fragrance  with  the  odour  of 
sizzling  bacon,  browning  flapjacks  and  boiling  coffee. 


WHERE  COFFEE  GROWS  31 

When  we  were  sure  we  could  eat  no  more,  we  stretched 
upon  blankets  and  fell  asleep  between  sentences. 

Breakfast  was  finished  in  the  grey  dawn  and  seven 
o’clock  saw  us  on  the  trail,  pointing  north.  Just 
beyond  the  camp-site  was  a network  of  trails  leading  in 
every  conceivable  direction,  but  the  sole  resident  of  a 
near-by  hut,  a jovial,  one-legged  'peon,  was  not  content 
to  give  verbal  directions.  He  saddled  a tiny  grey  pony 
and  rode  with  us  for  a couple  of  miles  until  we  were 
upon  the  straight  road. 

Coffee  fincas  and  banana  patches  we  soon  left  behind  ; 
the  table-land  formed  a pleasant,  rolling  country  well 
wooded  and  dotted  with  fat  cattle  and  horses.  Houses 
were  not  so  close  together,  but  we  met  many  horsemen 
who  eyed  our  Texas  saddles  curiously,  and  black-haired, 
buxom  women  and  girls  striding  along  with  great 
earthen  jars  upon  their  heads,  bearing  home  water 
from  the  nearest  stream.  These  gave  us  shy  smiles 
and  murmured  “ ’Dios,  senores.”  Occasionally  there 
approached  a troop  of  shouting  boys  driving  a squealing 
piglet  by  ropes  attached  to  its  hind  legs. 

Bamboo  bars  replaced  gates  in  this  region  ; the  walls 
of  the  smaller  cabins  were  also  of  this  material.  Huge 
clumps  of  the  graceful  plant  creaked  in  the  breeze 
beside  the  trail.  The  sun  was  pleasantly  warm  upon 
our  backs,  but  the  high  wind  of  the  plateau  kept 
sombreros  tugging  at  chin-straps. 

We  halted  at  noon  beside  a brawling  mountain  brook 
and  unsaddled  the  stock.  Here  we  had  our  almuerzo 
of  bacon  and  flapjacks  and  coffee,  while  the  animals 
devoured  a huge  ration  of  maize-ears  secured  from  a 
near-by  cabin.  A friendly,  curious  mozo  drifted  down 
to  camp  to  talk  shyly  and  insisted  upon  helping  us 
saddle  the  stock. 


32 


INTO  MANANA  LAND 

In  early  afternoon  the  table-land  ended.  The  trail 
wound  down  into  the  valley  of  the  Bio  Grande,  where 
an  ancient,  well-built  stone  causeway  spanned  the 
river.  Beyond  the  bridge  the  way  zigzagged  upward 
again,  straight  toward  the  mountain- top.  With 
numerous  halts  to  permit  the  weary  animals  to  breathe, 
we  ascended  the  slopes  and  came  shortly  before  sunset 
into  thickly  settled  coffee-land  once  more. 

Atenas  was  our  goal.  We  ambled  into  the  long  main 
street  through  the  twilight,  past  rows  of  low,  white- 
washed buildings,  until  we  came  to  the  plaza  and  the 
church.  We  had  decided,  in  the  interests  of  speed 
and  convenience,  to  jettison  Blanco  here,  with  such 
equipment  as  could  not  be  carried  in  saddle-bags.  So 
horse  and  surplus  outfit  were  disposed  of  to  a store- 
keeper at  a small  profit.  We  retained  a hundred  rounds 
of  revolver  ammunition  apiece,  the  kodak  and  films  and 
personal  equipment. 

An  old  crone  agreed  to  give  us  comida — fried  eggs, 
rice,  black  beans  and  cafe  negro — and  to  supply  cots. 
We  ate,  then  strolled  about  the  town  with  the  store- 
keeper, who  had  just  returned  from  New  Orleans  to 
apply  American  methods  to  his  home-town.  There 
was  little  to  see  ; the  usual  couples  promenading  aim- 
lessly ; so  we  bought  woven-grass  alforjas  and  went 
back  to  our  cots  in  the  house  of  the  old  woman. 

We  rode  out  of  Atenas  at  dawn  and  commenced 
descending  a long,  extremely  crooked  trail  which 
rejoiced  in  the  title  of  “ El  Camino  Beal  ” (the  “ Boyal 
Highway  ”).  It  led  down  the  mountain-side  in  many  a 
loop  and  curve  toward  San  Mateo  and  Esparta,  past 
virgin  tracts  of  many  miles'  width,  where  wild  animals 
crashed  off  at  our  approach  and  birds  sang  from  every 
treetop. 


OLD  ENGLISH  WATERWHEEL,  AGUACATE  GOLD  MINE. 


DESMONTE 


33 


Great,  grey  Costa  Rican  jays  and  tiny  banana  birds 
fluttered  across  the  open  before  us  and  scolded  from 
the  thickets.  High  overhead  the  zopibtes — cousins  of 
the  turkey-buzzard — hovered  almost  motionless  against 
the  blue  sky-arch,  now  and  then  descending  in  slow, 
stately  spirals  to  the  river  thousands  of  feet  below 
them.  Presently  we  could  look  down  a wooded  gorge 
and  catch  a glimpse  of  the  Gulf  of  Nicoya  glinting 
steely-grey  through  a rift  in  the  trees,  with  the  faint 
smoke  of  Puntarenas  in  the  far  distance,  sixty- odd  miles 
away. 

By  noontide  we  had  reached  the  hamlet  of  Desmonte, 
and  here  we  breakfasted  in  the  largest  of  the  village’s 
three  houses.  An  unusually  tidy  woman  set  out  the 
inevitable  rice  and  black  beans,  eggs  and  fried  bananas. 
Then  we  continued  the  descent  of  the  rocky  trail,  down 
which  the  animals  slipped  and  slid,  literally  inch  by 
inch.  High  above  Desmonte  a bridlepath  turned 
between  two  crumbling  brick  pillars  and  ascended  the 
mountain-side  to  the  ancient  Aguacate  Gold  Mine, 
oldest  in  Central  America. 

From  the  cyanide  plant  in  a little  valley  writhed  and 
twisted  an  insane  path  almost  impassable  to  horses. 
We  were  forced  to  dismount  and  drive  the  animals 
before  us,  and  when  we  reached  the  summit  men  and 
horses  alike  were  soaked  and  breathless. 

At  the  office  of  the  mina  manager  and  auditor  made 
us  welcome,  and  after  dinner  that  evening,  as  we 
lounged  on  the  verandah  overlooking  the  miners’ 
village,  they  regaled  us  with  many  tales  of  snakes,  and 
native  superstitions.  When  they  were  done  I told 
them  that,  were  I ever  asked  my  opinion  on  the  reptile 
life  of  Costa  Rica,  I must  reply  that  I believed  the 
republic  infested  by  the  most  venomous,  deadly  species 
3 


34  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

of  snake  stories  I had  ever  encountered.  Then  a 
“ galvanized  ” (“  civilized  ”)  native  clerk  eyed  me 
oddly.  He  spoke  English,  had  lived  in  the  States,  but 
the  superstitions  of  his  fathers  still  gripped  him. 

“ Ah,  you  don’t  believe  our  tales,  Mister  Macho,”  he 
said.  “You  make  the  fun  now,  but,  Santa  Maria  ! 
one  morning  you  may  wake  to  find  a toboba  staring  you 
in  the  face  with  wicked  eyes.  Then  you  will  believe. 
Ha  ! It  is  not  well  to  make  the  funniness  with  Senor 
Toboba.  Por  Dios  ! I say  no  ! ” 

He  was  very  serious  and  we  all  laughed.  I told  him 
that  I felt  no  premonitory  shivers,  but  a few  weeks 
later  . . . 

We  were  shown  to  a bedroom  in  the  auditor’s  house 
and  knew  the  comfort  of  a modem  bathroom  in  that 
wild  mountain  land.  As  we  fell  asleep  there  rose  in 
the  quiet  air  a burst  of  yelling  from  the  village  ; the 
miners  were  enjoying  a wake. 

As  the  clock  in  the  dilapidated  old  church  struck 
eleven,  we  trotted  briskly  through  San  Mateo  and  rode 
on  into  the  open  country  beyond,  now  a-dance  with 
heat  haze  through  which  the  chalky  road  shimmered 
like  a band  of  white-hot  metal.  An  old  woman  beside 
the  road  sold  us  breakfast  for  a colon  a head,  while  her 
brood  of  staring  children  first  fed  the  horses,  then 
returned  to  watch  us  open-mouthed. 

The  trail  traversed  the  same  wooded  country  as  in 
the  morning.  All  the  mountain-trails  were  narrow 
canons  cut  deep  into  the  land  by  the  wheels  of  the  ox- 
carts, floored  either  with  great,  loose  stones  or  solid 
rock.  Occasionally,  at  the  bottom  of  some  valley,  was 
a brief  stretch  of  soft,  red  dust,  where  the  only  sound 
to  break  the  sleepy  hush  of  mid- afternoon  was  the 
pad-pad  of  the  horses’  hoofs,  the  creaking  of  stirrup 


ESPARTA  35 

leathers  and  the  pleasant,  drowsy  jingle  of  spur 
chains. 

We  came  to  a pleasantly  shaded  spot  and  halted 
beneath  the  branches  of  a great  matapala  to  breathe 
the  animals.  Beneath  the  tree  a motley  company  was 
already  seated,  men  and  women  and  children,  with  a 
keenness,  an  alertness  of  expression,  about  them  that 
made  them  subtly  different  from  the  smiling  natives  we 
had  met  on  the  trail  theretofore.  They  leaned  upon 
oddly  shaped  bundles  and  one  boy  sat  unafraid  beside 
a big  jaguar. 

Our  frank  stares  were  returned  for  a bit,  then  an 
elderly  man  smiled  upon  us  and  explained  that  they 
were  a troupe  of  entertainers  who  travelled  from  town 
to  town,  wherever  a fiesta  was  held.  In  this  troop  were 
jugglers  and  sleight-of-hand  performers,  acrobats  and 
even  a few  exponents  of  the  Central  American  inter- 
pretation of  the  ancient  shell-and-pea  swindle.  Chatting 
with  them  we  got  a reminiscent  whiff  of  our  own  circuses 
in  the  flavour  of  their  talk. 

Two  boys  brought  up  a marimba,  the  lineal  ancestor 
of  the  xylophone  of  our  jazz  bands,  and  tapped  out  a 
mournful,  monotonous  refrain  that  set  Edna’s  hoofs 
moving  restlessly.  Then  we  mounted  and  rode  on, 
followed  by  their  au  revoirs. 

“ Hasta  Esparta  ! ” they  cried  after  us — “ Until 
Esparta ! ” 

Near  Esparta  the  wooded  hills  gave  way  to  long 
green  stretches  of  level  pasture  land,  with  herds  of 
cattle  and  horses  cropping  the  lush  grass  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  From  his  feeding  beneath  a roble 
bush,  a donkey,  the  first  we  had  seen  in  Costa  Rica, 
trumpeted  at  us  as  we  passed. 

There  was  ever  an  atmosphere  of  quaintness  about 


36 


INTO  MANANA  LAND 


these  peaceful  little  towns.  I felt  somehow  as  if  we 
rode,  not  merely  through  the  drowsy  country-side,  but 
back  through  Time  itself,  to  approach  them.  They 
were  like  the  hamlets  of  medieval  Spain,  the  Spain  of 
Gil  Bias  and  Don  Quixote,  with  hardly  a modern  touch 
about  their  low,  white  houses  and  tiny  shops,  or  about 
the  people  lazing  on  the  narrow  streets. 

Swart,  sandalled  men  on  horse-  or  mule-back  gave 
grave  salutation,  as  they  passed,  to  women  and  girls 
whose  heads  were  shrouded  with  the  black  mantilla  of 
Old  Castile  ; the  village  inn  was  still  the  centre  of  news 
for  the  region.  It  always  woke  an  odd  feeling  of  un- 
reality to  address  these  folk  with  words  gleaned  from 
textbooks  of  the  prosaic  States  and,  listening,  find  that 
I could  understand  their  replies. 

Such  a town  was  Atenas,  and  Esparta  was  the  same, 
with  never  an  automobile,  nor  a wagon  which  in  model 
was  later  than,  perhaps,  three  hundred  years  past. 
There  were  only  the  carts,  their  wooden  wheels  sawed 
from  a single  section  of  a huge  tree,  creaking  past  on 
ungreased  pole  axles  in  the  wake  of  placid-eyed,  slow- 
moving  spotted  oxen. 

When  the  animals  had  been  unsaddled  and  fed  in  a 
potrero — pasture — we  turned  to  the  principal  inn, 
crowded  with  country-folk  come  in  to  attend  the 
Fiesta  Unionista.  We  ate  in  the  low-ceiled  public 
dining-room  with  horse-dealers  and  farmers  staring  at 
us  curiously,  and  a fat  little  Indian  maid  flirting  brazenly 
with  Norm.  When  the  dusk  had  fallen  the  streets 
began  to  fill,  moving  toward  the  stone-floored  market. 

Here  the  dance  was  in  full  swing.  There  was  “ music  ” 
galore — brass  bands,  string  orchestras  and  marimba 
players,  each  striving  to  outdo  all  others  in  violence  of 
gesture  and  volume  of  sound.  The  peones  for  miles 


ESPARTA  IN  FESTIVAL  TIME 


37 


around  had  taken  holiday  and  come  in  to  drink 
aguardiente  and  dance  with  their  giggling  ninas.  Every- 
one seemed  to  be  enjoying  the  festival  with  the  abandon 
of  a people  which  knows  but  few  amusements. 

Outside  the  market,  under  flaring,  guttering  carbide 
lamps,  we  found  the  mountebanks  we  had  met  in  the 
afternoon  on  the  trail.  Groups  of  natives  gathered 
about  the  jugglers  and  acrobats,  or  gasped  in  amaze- 
ment when  the  lifted  shell  disclosed  no  pea.  It  was 
for  all  the  world  like  circus-night  in  any  small  town  of 
the  States,  then  . . . 

A wild,  hair-raising  scream  went  up  behind  us.  We 
whirled  to  see  a boy  of  seventeen  or  so  leap  forward  and 
swing  his  machete  murderously  at  a be-mustachioed 
hombre  who  was  springing  backward  as  he  tugged  at 
his  own  machete-handle.  The  boy’s  razor-edged  blade 
gashed  across  the  shirt-bosom  of  Senor  Mustachio  from 
side  to  side,  leaving  a thin  line  of  red,  then  a squad  of 
little  policemen  disarmed  them.  Sudden  death,  I 
reflected,  lay  rather  close  to  the  surface  in  these  smiling, 
brown  men,  when  the  fiery  aguardiente  or  “ guaro  ” — 
the  colourless  rum  distilled  from  sugarcane  sap — tilted 
their  peaceful  brains.  We  went  back  to  the  dance- 
floor, to  watch  these  swarthy  descendants  of  the  Mayas 
slapping  broad  bare  feet  upon  the  stone  pavement. 

When  we  found  our  room,  with  the  aid  of  a flickering 
carbide  lamp,  we  thought  for  the  moment  we  had  reached 
the  stables.  It  was  one  of  a single  row  of  stalls  equipped 
with  rude  cots,  each  pigeonhole  opening  upon  the  dusty, 
weed-bordered  Calle  Principal.  Down  “ Main  Street  ” 
wandered,  for  the  better  part  of  the  night,  groups  of 
yelling,  singing  “ Tiombres  de  bien ,”  much  the  worse  for 
guaro.  Sleep  was  fitful. 

The  trail  out  of  Esparta  was  smoother  than  any  we 


38  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

had  seen  thus  far  and  the  drifting  clouds  afforded 
grateful  relief  from  the  sun.  We  jogged  along  over  a 
gently  rolling  country,  sometimes  bathed  in  brilliant 
sunshine,  again  shrouded  by  a soft  greyness  like  that  of 
twilight,  while  a tiny  breeze  fanned  the  long  grass. 

Through  wooded  prairies  the  trail  led  to  the  Rio 
Barranca,  and  we  crossed  over  the  planks  set  between 
the  tracks  of  the  railway  bridge  and  trotted  into 
Miramar,  a thriving,  helter-skelter  town  of  five  hundred 
souls,  at  midday.  An  old  woman  sold  us  our  meal,  and 
we  ate  in  the  open  verandah  of  her  whitewashed  casa, 
with  the  hens  and  the  family  cat  seeking  crumbs  at  our 
feet,  while  the  old  dame  smiled  toothlessly  upon  us 
from  the  kitchen  doorway.  The  strong  north  wind 
threatened  to  whip  the  dishes  from  the  table,  and  our 
hostess  sniffed  sailor-fashion  into  the  breeze  and  pre- 
dicted rain. 

When  we  paid  our  score  of  one  colon  and  saddled 
the  animals,  the  old  woman  called  us  to  the  verandah 
and  filled  our  pockets  with  greenish  fruit  from  her 
orange  tree.  Las  Juntas,  she  said,  was  but  three 
hours’  ride  and  the  trail  was  plain.  We  halted  at  a 
tiny  shop  on  the  town’s  outskirts  and  inquired  of  a 
round-eyed  muchacho  which  of  the  forking  trails  led  to 
Las  Juntas.  He  stared  at  us  blankly  for  a space,  with- 
drew a forefinger  from  his  mouth  just  long  enough  to 
point,  then  clapped  the  finger  back. 

Three  o’clock  found  us  still  on  the  trail  in  a moun- 
tainous, densely  wooded  region  and  at  the  summit  of 
a hill  so  steep  we  had  been  forced  to  walk  behind  the 
lagging  animals  and  drive  them  upward  with  the  quirt. 
But  once  upon  the  hilltop  the  swearing,  sweating  ascent 
was  rewarded  by  a wonderful  panorama  of  the  country 
below,  where  the  sugarcane  showed  in  light-green 


THE  WRONG  TRAIL 


39 


squares  against  the  darker  verdure  of  the  mountain- 
side and  the  grey  surface  of  Nicoya  shone  like  a silver 
shield  for  background. 

As  we  halted  here  an  ancient  Jiombre  astride  a shaggy, 
cock-eared  mountain  pony  trotted  around  a bend  in 
the  trail,  with  a second,  even  smaller  pony  following 
meekly  behind  bearing  two  huge  boxes  lashed  to  a rude 
pack-saddle.  The  old  man  stopped  beside  us  to  point 
out  those  scenes  he  conceived  might  be  of  interest  to 
touristas,  then  shook  hands  very  solemnly  and  ambled 
on.  This  business  of  shaking  hands  seems  to  be  a 
family  weakness  of  the  Costaricense  ; few  we  met  could 
resist  the  temptation. 

In  late  afternoon  we  literally  slid  down  to  a noisy 
mountain  stream  which  crossed  the  trail.  In  Costa 
Rica  all  streams  cross  the  roads  ; this  is  a peculiarity 
I make  no  effort  to  explain,  but  set  it  down  as  statistical. 
At  the  ford  we  found  a group  of  peones  watering  their 
scrubby  ponies  with  much  splashing  and  laughter. 
Here  we  learned  that  the  small  boy  who  had  directed 
us  out  of  Miramar  will  undoubtedly  father  a generation 
of  soulful  liars,  if  there  is  anything  in  the  theory  of 
hereditary  influence  ; we  were  on  the  trail  to  La  Union 
Mine,  not  on  that  to  Las  Juntas. 

A thunderstorm  was  gathering  far  up  the  valley 
into  which  we  were  descending  by  inches  ; a huge  pall 
of  inky  nimbus  cloud  shrouded  the  sky  overhead.  As 
we  followed  the  serpentine  trail  to  the  mine  a fine 
drizzle  began  to  fall,  then  a steady  rain.  We  huddled 
in  the  saddle  and  faced  the  slanting  wet,  wondering  to 
see  such  a downpour  in  the  dry  season.  Also,  we 
acknowledged  the  ability  of  the  old  woman  to  forecast 
weather. 

The  horses  puffed  and  slid  over  the  slippery  mud, 


40  INTO  MANANA  LAND 

but  still  we  could  see  no  sign  of  human  habitation.  An 
hour  passed,  then,  far  below  us,  a gleam  of  ghostly 
white  on  the  green  valley-floor  showed  the  mine-build- 
ings. The  weary  animals  lifted  up  their  heads  and 
sniffed,  then  broke  into  a jarring  trot. 

At  the  mine-office  we  were  welcomed  with  true  Costa 
Rican  hospitality  by  the  manager,  Don  Juan  Mata- 
moras.  A mozo  led  off  the  animals  to  the  stable,  then 
brought  our  saddles  and  alforjas  uphill  to  the  owner’s 
empty  house,  where  we  had  been  assigned  an  immense 
bedroom. 

After  dinner  we  sat  comfortably  in  the  manager’s 
bungalow,  listening  to  the  beat  of  the  rain  upon  the 
shingles.  Once  more  we  saw  the  Book  of  the  Tropics 
opened  and,  with  cigarettes  red-ended,  leaned  back 
comfortably  to  hear  of  men  and  affairs  “ sub  lotus.” 
Matamoras,  who  had  seen  the  jaded  animals,  presented 
us  with  the  premises.  A two-day  halt,  he  told  us, 
would  rest  the  horses,  and  give  us  time  to  wander 
through  the  mine.  We  accepted  gratefully,  for  the 
entertainment  was  pleasant,  made  an  appointment  for 
dawn,  then  stumbled  sleepily  up  to  our  room  in  the  big 
house  on  the  hilltop. 


CHAPTER  II 

JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 

La  Union  Gold  Mine — A Mule  for  a Horse — Crossing  “ Mon- 
key Ford  ” — Ax  the  Rio  Guasimal — Twisting  Trails — A Chinese 
Pirate — Las  Juntas  and  the  Terrible  Turk — Trail  to  Las 
Canas — The  Policeman’s  Statistics — What  the  Rats  did. 

THE  house  of  the  mine-owner,  used  by  him  during 
his  infrequent  visits  to  La  Union,  which  was 
only  one  of  his  properties  in  the  republic,  was 
a square  building  of  two  stories,  with  verandahs  on  both 
floors  at  front  and  back.  All  in  all,  it  comprised 
twelve  great  rooms,  one  of  which  contained  us,  with 
two  canvas  cots  and  the  little  pile  of  our  saddles  and 
outfit,  with  still  an  effect  of  yawning  emptiness. 

There  were  all  the  creakings  and  groanings  that 
mark  the  uninhabited  house  in  any  land,  plainly  audible 
above  the  drumming  of  the  rain  upon  the  shingles 
over  our  heads.  One  sound  in  particular  came  to  us — 
a creak  as  of  the  screened  door  to  the  lower  front 
verandah  being  opened  cautiously  ; a soft  shuffling, 
when  I would  have  sworn  that  sandalled  feet  were 
crossing  the  hallway  to  the  stairs.  Silence  for  an 
instant,  then  the  same  shuffling  footsteps  in  diminuendo, 
with  the  rusty  creaking  of  the  door  hinges  as  it  opened 
and  closed  again.  Five  times  I lay  and  listened  to  the 
whole  programme,  in  not  more  than  twenty  minutes 
by  Norm’s  watch.  Then,  as  I was  trying  to  gather 

41 


42  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 

energy  to  go  downstairs  and  see  if  the  door  was  hooked 
as  we  had  left  it,  I fell  asleep. 

The  seven- o’clock  whistle  waked  us  to  a grey,  watery 
dawn.  We  scrambled  out  of  the  blankets  and  dived 
under  an  icy  shower  in  the  bathroom,  and  just  as  the 
last  peon  straggled  past  the  foreman  at  the  shaft-mouth 
up  the  hill,  we  were  entering  the  bungalow  of  Don  Juan 
Matamoras,  very  ready  to  discuss  breakfast,  or 
“ desayuno”  as  the  Latinized  races  term  the  morning 
meal. 

Maynor,  whose  knowledge  of  mining  was  as  theoretical 
as  our  own,  was  to  be  our  guide,  for  Don  Juan  was  a 
very  busy  man,  who  must  personally  supervise  the 
progress  in  a dozen  separated  sections  of  the  workings. 
All  in  our  very  dirtiest  clothing,  as  we  had  been  in- 
structed to  come,  we  followed  the  secretary  through 
the  cluster  of  storehouses  and  assay  offices  set  in  the 
valley-bottom  and  climbed  a narrow,  tortuous  path  up 
through  the  undergrowth  on  the  hill-side. 

A little,  whitewashed  shed  clung  to  a square  platform 
hewed  out  of  the  hill-side,  with  greenery  all  around  and 
above  it,  threatening  to  swallow  up  the  shack  in  a sudden 
final  wave  of  growth.  Here  was  the  yawning  black 
shaft-mouth,  main  entrance  to  the  mine.  A blank- 
faced Chinese  storekeeper  brought  out  carbide  lamps, 
similar  to  those  used  on  bicycles,  from  the  store-shed, 
and  we  went  inside  the  shaft. 

La  Union  is  a “ tunnel  ” mine  ; the  shaft  is  horizontal 
instead  of  perpendicular,  so  there  is  no  hoisting 
necessary,  except  for  short  heights  in  the  lower  levels 
of  the  mine  itself.  The  main- shaft  is  drilled  from  a 
point  on  the  curving  hillside,  straight  into  the  mountain. 
The  tunnels,  roughly  six  feet  wide  and  as  many  high, 
are  like  the  hallways  of  a great  skyscraper,  radiating 


LA  UNION  MINE 


43 


at  angles  from  the  main-shaft,  with  corresponding 
“ floors  ” of  tunnels  above  and  below  the  main-level, 
each  carrying  its  system  of  narrow  ore-car  tracks,  in 
regular  “ stories.” 

A narrow  plank  was  set  upon  the  rock-floor  between 
the  ore-car  tracks,  to  serve  as  walk.  Along  this  we 
went  gingerly,  into  the  slimy-walled,  slushy-floored 
tunnel  leading  past  the  wing  where  were  the  old  workings 
of  a half-century  before.  We  stopped  at  the  mouth  of 
the  tunnel  leading  into  these  workings  of  another 
generation,  and  Maynor — bolder  than  we — picked  his 
way  through  ankle-deep  muddy  water  for  a hundred 
feet  to  throw  his  light  upon  the  tangled  mass  of  timbers 
that  blocked  the  passage  into  the  old  unit.  The  shoring 
had  given  way  in  places  and  let  the  roof  sag  almost  to 
the  tunnel-floor.  It  was  a dripping  desolation  that  his 
lamp  revealed,  as  melancholy  as  a drowned  kitten.  I 
wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  lost  in  that  deserted 
warren  of  crossing  passages,  which  could  be  come  into 
from  the  modern  workings  above  ; I hoped  earnestly 
that  Maynor  was  a competent  guide,  for  the  dank, 
chill  gloom,  merely  intensified  by  the  flickering  glare  of 
the  torches,  was  having  its  effect. 

It  was  easy  to  picture  some  poor  devil  of  a mozo, 
newly  arrived  and  so  unfamiliar  with  the  mine’s 
geography,  scrambling  down  a “ chimney  ” from  the  new 
workings  and  becoming  confused  in  the  labyrinthine 
twistings  of  the  old  works ; running  up  and  down  the 
endless  passages,  screaming  with  the  fear  of  the  dark 
that  is  so  strong  in  all  of  us ; dying  of  hunger  and 
exhaustion — there  was  drip-water  and  to  spare — 
perhaps,  on  the  slimy  mud  of  the  floor.  But  Maynor 
shrugged  cheerfully  when  I broached  the  question. 

“ Very  seldom,”  he  answered.  “ Occasionally  a man 


44  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


disappears,  of  course,  in  spite  of  the  checking-system 
at  the  shaft-mouth.  The  devil  of  it  is,  we  can't  tell 
whether  he’s  just  skipped  with  a shirtful  of  high-grade 
and  left  the  region,  or  is  really  lost  somewhere  in  the  out- 
lying tunnels.  It  hasn’t  happened  since  I’ve  been  here.” 

Far  down  the  main- tunnel  a light  came  flickering 
toward  us.  We  were  joined  by  a craggy-featured, 
seamed  and  stooping  old  mine-boss.  He  had  spent 
more  than  fifteen  of  the  past  twenty-five  years  in 
burrowing  mole-like  underground,  he  told  us,  and  had 
worked  in  the  mines  from  Mexico  to  Peru.  Of  the  ten 
years  he  hadn’t  been  mining,  nearly  eight  had  been 
employed  in  recovering  from  rheumatism.  We  saw 
that  he  moved  with  the  deft  certainty  of  the  blind  in 
the  dank  blackness,  carrying  his  lamp  carelessly  as  if 
more  from  habit  than  any  real  need  of  it. 

He  preceded  us  down  a “ chimney,”  a narrow,  vertical 
shaft  leading  to  the  level,  or  floor,  a hundred  feet 
directly  below  that  in  which  he  had  joined  us.  We 
elevated  our  arms  to  the  perpendicular  and  with  groping 
feet  searched  out  the  wooden  ladder-rungs.  The 
chimney  was  so  narrow  that  it  was  impossible  to  alter 
the  position  of  one’s  arms  until  the  bottom  was  reached 
— very  thankfully  on  my  part — ten  minutes  later. 

Still  following  the  boss,  we  waded  ankle-deep  in  icy 
seepage- water  down  a seemingly  endless  tunnel,  cut 
into  other  cross-tunnels  to  left  and  right  until  all  sense 
of  direction  left  me,  ascended  a short  chimney  and 
followed  another  system  of  passages,  hugging  the  walls 
at  frequent  intervals  to  let  the  rumbling,  heavy-burdened 
ore-cars  go  by  with  their  cargo  of  bluish-white  mud. 
At  last  we  came  to  the  new  stope  where  a pocket  of  rich 
ore  had  just  been  found. 

At  the  end  of  this  stope  two  native  miners  were  at 


LA  UNION  MINERS 


45 


work  with  airdrill  and  short  picks,  grubbing  out  ore 
from  the  vein.  They  had  no  light  except  that  from  a 
stump  of  tallow  candle,  which  barely  illumined  the  grey 
wall  upon  which  they  worked.  Both  wore  their  battered 
straw  hats,  but  nothing  else  except  “ shorts  ” made  by 
chopping  the  legs  from  old  trousers,  and  cowhide 
sandals  so  mud-incrusted  that  their  identity  was  almost 
indeterminate. 

They  were  short,  broad  men,  like  most  Costaricenses, 
all  muscular  arms  and  shoulders  and  deep  chest,  with 
no  legs  to  speak  of,  like  professional  boxers.  The  rays 
of  our  lamps  glared  white  on  their  eyeballs  as  they 
turned  curiously  to  look  at  us,  and  threw  the  sides  of 
their  swarthy  faces  into  quick  relief  as  they  held  drill 
to  vein,  or  swung  the  picks  with  short,  grunting  strokes 
upon  quartz  and  clay. 

The  big  back-muscles  slid  like  snakes  under  the 
brown  skin,  and  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  their 
smooth  trunks  winked  and  twinkled  like  diamond- 
facets  against  the  surrounding  wall  of  blackness. 

We  were  invited  to  pick  up  specimens  from  this  spot, 
where  the  gold-  and  silver-bearing  quartz  assayed  more 
than  sixty  dollars  to  the  ton,  in  contrast  to  the  ten- 
dollar  ore  which  had  always  been  the  average  of  La 
Union.  But  there  was  nothing  about  the  whitey-brown 
rock  to  tell  the  story  of  golden  treasure  to  our  inexperi- 
enced eyes.  It  looked  like  any  other  muddy  rock. 

We  found  it  all  vastly  interesting,  this  labour  of 
extracting  from  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth  the  yellow 
and  white  metals  for  which  all  of  us,  in  one  way  or 
another,  scramble  and  fight.  But  as  I looked  at  the 
faces  and  figures  of  the  miners  we  met  in  the  levels, 
particularly  at  the  old  Swede  mine-boss,  who  was  as 
ignorant  of  anything  outside  his  tunnels  as  any  ten- 


46  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


year-old  schoolboy,  it  seemed  to  me  that  a mark  of 
abnormality  was  set  upon  them  all,  apart  from  the 
owlish,  peering  eyes,  the  set  stoop  of  the  shoulders  that 
comes  from  ducking  and  crawling  down  low  passage- 
ways. Thought  of  the  consequence  of  even  a small 
earthquake  was  far  from  pleasant ; I remembered  with 
painful  distinctness  that  several  slight  tremors  had  been 
felt  within  the  past  two  weeks.  So  it  was  with  hearty 
relief  that  I turned  back  with  the  others  to  the  shaft- 
mouth,  after  four  hours  underground,  and  stood  once 
more  under  the  clear  blue  sky,  in  brilliant  sunlight. 

From  down  the  valley  came  the  thud-thudding  of 
the  stamp-mill,  where  the  ore  taken  from  the  mine 
went  beneath  the  great  stamps  and  emerged  as  liquid. 
After  a cocktail-shaking  process  this  liquid,  of  much  the 
colour  and  smell  as  plaster,  ran  on  to  zinc  platforms 
and,  mixed  with  water,  travelled  on  to  others.  Gravity 
did  all  the  carrying  ; from  stamp-mill  to  cyanide-plant 
the  solution  came  downhill — a common  arrangement  in 
all  mines,  we  were  told. 

In  the  cyanide-plant  we  were  shown  the  last  stages 
of  extraction ; a series  of  great  tubs  in  which  the 
solution  in  varying  degrees  of  fineness  stood  for  days 
to  “ settle/’  so  that  the  “ values  ” could  be  extracted. 
From  the  last  of  these  tubs  came  the  values  to  be 
precipitated,  and  finally  cast  into  bars  for  shipment. 
San  Jose  was  the  destination  of  the  bars,  and  they  went 
out  under  heavy  guard. 

Victor  had  been  weighed  in  the  balance  and  found 
wanting.  Under  Norm’s  poundage  he  was  too  soft  of 
constitution,  too  long  in  the  barrel,  for  the  difficult 
mountain-work  that  lay  before  us.  So  when  we  had 
finished  breakfast  Don  Juan  called  in  Arturo  Brioschi, 
the  Italian  stableman,  who  had  a macho  for  sale. 


A MULE  FOE  A HORSE 


47 


Arturo  had  fallen  in  love  with  Victor  at  first  sight, 
for  the  big  grey  was  a showy  horse.  In  turn,  we  coveted 
the  big,  sturdy  macho.  But  when  we  set  a price  of 
colones  one  hundred  in  addition  to  the  macho  as  our 
valuation  of  Victor,  Arturo  withdrew  hurriedly  and 
offendedly  from  the  conference,  shaking  his  head  and 
muttering  that  in  the  past  ten  years  he  hadn't  seen  so 
much  money.  He  was  called  the  shrewdest  horse- 
trader  in  the  republic,  so  we  waited  curiously  for  his 
counter-offer  of  the  morrow.  Knowing  Victor's  short- 
comings, we  were  perfectly  willing,  even  anxious,  to 
trade,  but  we  wanted,  also,  to  make  Arturo  pay  some- 
thing— anything — against  his  will. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  we  inspected  the 
mula  of  one  of  the  workers  in  the  cyanide-plant.  Levy 
demanded  two  hundred  colones,  in  addition  to  Victor, 
for  his  animal,  which  we  regarded  as  an  outrageous 
price,  il  explained  to  him  that  we  hadn't  come  to 
Costa  Rica  to  make  all  the  inhabitants  independently 
wealthy,  while  Norm  ostentatiously  inspected  the 
animal’s  ears  and  teeth,  and  when  Levy  demanded  the 
reason,  explained  blandly  that  he  was  looking  for 
the  diamond-settings.  So  Levy  departed. 

Next  came  Arturo  with  his  macho,  a fat,  strong  animal 
of  some  twelve  or  twenty  years’  wisdom  and  experience, 
dependent  entirely  upon  whether  one  hearkened  to 
Arturo  or  his  enemies.  Arturo  is  well  deserving  of  a 
chronicle  to  himself,  for  the  account  of  his  Machiavellian 
schemings,  like  Tennyson’s  brook,  “ runs  on  and  on  for 
ever.” 

We  renewed  our  demand  for  a hundred  colones  boot, 
and  again  Arturo  lifted  up  his  voice  with  all  the  elo- 
quence and  fervour  of  his  Latin  forbears  to  protest  that 
he  hadn’t  so  much  as  cinco  centavos — five  cents. 


48  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


Maynor,  catching  sight  of  Arturo’s  wife  in  a doorway, 
suggested  maliciously  that  Arturo  should  borrow  the 
hundred  from  his  better  half,  who  was  known  to  handle 
the  purse-strings,  as  well  as  the  reins  of  government, 
in  the  household.  Arturo  turned  to  cast  one  glance  at 
the  vast,  uncompromising  bulk  of  the  Senora  Brioschi, 
then  yawned  eloquently. 

“ A of  a chance  I’d  have,  Mr.  Maynor,”  he 

replied  simply.  “ Would  you  like  to  try  ? ” 

Maynor  refused  hastily. 

We  insisted  that  a hundred  colones  boot  was  none  too 
much  when  Victor’s  manifest  superiority  was  considered. 
Arturo  sighed  dolefully,  then  whirled  upon  the  twinkling- 
eyed Don  Juan  and  called  upon  all  the  gods  to  witness 
that  he  was  a poor  man ; that,  whereas  the  mine’s 
owner,  whose  confidential  groom  he  was,  had  decreed 
that  his,  Arturo’s,  salary  and  emoluments  should  be 
four  colones  a day,  with  allowance  for  house  and  food, 
immediately  after  the  owner’s  departure  for  the  States 
Don  Juan  had  reduced  his  wages  to  three  colones  and 
cut  off  all  allowances.  So  he  hadn’t  a penny  to  bless 
himself  with. 

Don  Juan  and  Maynor  had  warned  us  that  in  a horse- 
deal  Arturo  always  won — or  refused  to  deal — so  we 
weren’t  greatly  surprised  when  noon  found  us  on  the 
trail  to  the  power-house  of  the  Abengarez  Gold  Field 
Company,  at  Guasimal,  with  Norm  astride  the  macho, 
and  no  richer  in  colones  of  the  republic. 

Arturo  rode  with  us  part  way,  to  guide  us  through 
the  tangled  jungle  surrounding  La  Union.  He  bestrode 
a tiny  bay  pony  girded  with  an  ancient  Texas  hull,  and 
was  armed — Arturo,  not  the  pony — with  both  machete 
and  rusty  revolver  to  do  honour  to  his  importance.  He 
knew  the  country  as  the  Indian  knows  his  hunting- 


CROSSING  “MONKEY”  FORD 


49 


ground,  and  lie  rode  with  the  careless  grace  of  the 
Comanche.  He  led  us  by  way  of  mad  gallops  down 
ten-inch  bridlepaths  through  the  dense  undergrowth  of 
the  hill-sides,  up  sheer  slopes  and  down  breath-taking 
descents,  until  we  came  in  mid-afternoon  upon  a faintly 
defined  ox-cart  trail.  Here  he  halted  and  demanded 
my  notebook  and  upon  a page  drew  a map  of  the 
remainder  of  the  route  to  Guasimal,  giving  us,  as  he  drew, 
a wealth  of  oral  information  about  the  region  and  its 
inhabitants. 

He  seemed  to  consider  the  country  solely  in  terms  of 
horses  and  mules.  Here,  at  this  blaze  in  the  trail — 
marked  with  a great  X with  the  borrowed  pencil — lived 
an  “ hombre  muy  mab  ” (a  very  bad  man),  who  owned 
two  horses  and  a macho  ; a mile  beyond  was  an  old 
woman  with  a fine  mare.  Arturo  had  the  live  stock  of 
the  locality  catalogued  in  his  mind,  and  we  felt  sure 
that,  should  we  ever  have  to  camp  in  his  neighbourhood, 
our  horses  would  sleep  with  us.  We  refused  pointblank 
to  purchase  the  little  pony,  so  he  shook  hands  and  turned 
back. 

For  an  hour  we  followed  the  cart-road  through  scrub 
jungle  where  never  a casa  of  the  humblest  broke  the 
virginal  wilderness,  fording  innumerable  narrow  brooks 
and  climbing  or  descending  constantly.  Then  we  came 
to  the  broad  stream  named  by  Arturo  the  Rio  Grande, 
of  which  every  departamento , or  province,  can  boast  at 
least  one.  This  stream,  so  Arturo  had  warned  us,  was 
filled  with  quicksands  and  the  only  safe  crossing  must 
be  made  at  “ Vado  Mono,”  the  “ Monkey  Wade.”  We 
would  know  it,  according  to  Arturo,  by  the  monkeys 
swarming  about  the  ford. 

It  was  nearly  twilight  when  we  halted  the  animals 
at  the  brink  of  the  ten-foot  bluff  which  there  formed 
4 


50  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 

the  stream’s  bank,  to  stare  dubiously  across  the  thick, 
slow-moving  water.  The  trail  we  stood  upon  apparently 
continued  beyond  the  river,  judging  from  a tiny  break 
in  the  green  wall  on  the  opposite  shore,  but — was  it 
Vado  Mono  or  merely  a cattle- trail  ? So  we  sat  the 
beasts  and  speculated. 

Then  on  the  far  bank  broke  out  a shrill  chattering. 
Flying  through  the  branches  of  the  low  trees  came 
twenty  or  thirty  monkeys.  We  heaved  sighs  of  relief 
and  sent  the  animals  sliding  down  the  bluff  into  the 
water.  Barely  had  they  breasted  the  slow  current, 
rising  belly-high  upon  Edna,  when  downstream  we  saw 
another  faint  path  leading  into  the  stream  and  another 
flock  of  monkeys  gathered.  We  hesitated,  then  Norm 
turned  in  the  saddle  and  stared  upstream.  I followed 
the  direction  indicated  by  his  pointing  finger  and  there 
was  a third  path,  with  patron  monkeys  swinging  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees  above  ! 

So  we  spurred  on,  and  with  the  macho  splashing 
cautiously  in  the  lead  came  to  midstream  where  the 
water  ran  swiftly,  with  a foaming  ripple  marking  the 
true  channel.  The  macho  was  as  sure  of  foot  as  a cat, 
but  poor  Edna  slipped  and  stumbled  over  the  round 
stones  and  at  last  came  to  her  knees  and  slipped  side- 
ways. I came  out  of  the  saddle  with  a bound  and 
hauled  the  little  mare  to  her  feet.  Then,  wetted  from 
neck  to  heels,  I led  her  on  to  the  shore.  Apparently, 
we  had  found  the  true  Monkey  Wade,  for  I could  feel 
nothing  but  loose  stones  underfoot. 

“ Follow  the  trail  from  the  blaze  on  the  big  mata- 
pala,”  Arturo  had  said,  in  effect.  But  when  we  reached 
the  far  bank  of  the  Rio  Grande  we  broke  through  the 
screen  of  bushes  and  rode  out  into  a wide  stretch  of 
jungle  which  had  been  burned  over  within  the  week  by 


ARTURO  AND  YOUNU  DEER  CAUGHT  AT  LA  UNION.  TWO  “ MACHOS  ” AND  EDNA,  TRAIL  TO  &UASIMAL 


DIFFICULT  PROGRESS 


51 


some  wandering  native.  Of  the  matapala's  blazed  face 
we  found  no  trace,  and  we  rode  up  and  down  the  bank, 
trying  to  pick  up  the  trail.  There  was  a half-hour  of 
this,  with  the  droves  of  black-and-tan  monkeys  swinging 
in  the  trees  along  the  bank  parallel  to  our  course, 
making  uncomplimentary  remarks — judging  from  the 
expressions  upon  their  comical,  wizened  faces — about 
our  personal  appearance.  Parrots  of  all  shades  of 
green,  the  great,  piratical-nosed,  purple  and  scarlet 
macaws,  and  huge  grey  jays,  flapped  up  from  the  low 
bushes  about  us,  screaming  raucously.  Then  Norm 
gave  the  macho  his  head  and  he  broke  through  the 
trackless  undergrowth  and  brought  us  to  a narrow  path 
leading  upward  through  an  aisle  between  great  trees. 

The  sun  set,  leaving  a grey  haze  upon  the  wilderness. 
Darkness  came  down  with  tropical  suddenness  and 
progress  became  a matter  always  difficult,  sometimes 
dangerous,  for  although  the  moon  rode  high  in  the  sky, 
so  thick  was  the  leafy  screen  above  our  heads  that  few 
rays  filtered  through  to  light  us  on  the  way. 

Once  Edna  came  to  her  knees  at  the  crest  of  a long, 
steep  hill  and  I,  alighting  very  suddenly,  almost  stepped 
over  a precipice  whose  height  I could  only  guess. 
Again  she  slipped  downward  through  thick  dust  with 
feet  bunched  cat-fashion,  and  I reached  above  my  head 
to  grasp  a vine  sharply  outlined  against  the  moonlit  sky 
that  roofed  the  little  clearing.  But  the  “ vine  ” 
writhed  upward  from  my  hand  and  I ducked  hurriedly 
with  crawling  spine,  expecting  to  feel  fangs  striking  into 
the  back  of  my  neck.  Ahead  of  us  the  macho  was 
picking  his  way  placidly  over  the  loose  stones  at  a pace 
Edna  made  no  attempt  to  equal. 

Owls  hooted  in  the  darkness  around  us  and  low-flying 
birds  fluttered  across  the  way  with  drowsy  chirps, 


52  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 

almost  in  our  faces.  We  came  to  a narrow  stream  of 
which  we  had  heard  Maynor  speak,  and  within  a half- 
hour  crossed  it  splashingly  no  less  than  thirteen  times, 
the  animals  stumbling  over  the  sharp  stones  of  the 
fords.  At  last,  just  as  we  were  becoming  reconciled  to 
the  thought  of  a blanket  in  the  jungle  for  bed,  a stalk 
of  sugarcane  for  comida,  electric  lights  twinkled  in  the 
darkness  before  us  and  we  rode  out  into  open  country. 
A half-mile  more  and  we  crossed  a causeway  made  by 
filling  in  with  dirt  the  ten-foot  space  between  two  huge 
waterpipes. 

With  both  Edna  and  the  macho  rearing  and  plunging 
where  the  causeway  bridged  the  Rio  Guasimal — eighty 
feet  below — we  came  to  the  power-house  at  Guasimal, 
and  at  ten- thirty  were  given  a huge  meal  of  beefsteaks, 
beans,  boiled  rice,  coffee  with  both  canned  milk  and 
white  sugar.  Then  we  fell  across  canvas  cots  and  were 
asleep  almost  before  the  big,  courteous  Spaniard  of  the 
house  had  left  the  room. 

Our  way  onward  from  Guasimal  led  along  the 
Abengarez  intake,  a huge  concrete  flume  down  which 
flow  the  icy,  crystal-clear  waters  of  the  Rio  Guasimal. 
We  ate  an  enormous  breakfast,  caught  the  animals  and 
saddled  them,  and  paid  our  hostess  two  colones  for 
meals  and  lodging. 

The  grass  along  the  intake  was  green  and  thick  and 
the  call  of  running  water  too  strong  to  be  denied.  We 
stripped  and  plunged  into  the  stream,  while  the  animals 
grazed  near-by.  The  macho  grazed  on  the  grass  near 
the  water,  and  somehow,  faced  by  his  expression  of 
age-old  wisdom,  we  felt  painfully  young  and  guileless, 
spite  our  combined  experience  of  nearly  sixty  years. 

So,  standing  erect  and  shivering  in  the  icy  water,  we 
christened  him  Solomon  the  King.  Never  did  we  have 


TWISTING  TRAILS 


53 


reason  to  regret  our  choice  of  names,  whatever  else 
about  him  gave  us  sorrow  in  the  days  that  followed. 

After  leaving  the  intake  the  trail  wound  upward 
through  the  mountains  over  a tortuous,  ill-defined  way 
— as  usual.  Occasionally  we  passed  the  rude  cabin  of 
some  small  cultivator,  set  in  an  emerald  patch  of  sugar- 
cane or  plantains,  but  for  the  most  part  unbroken 
wilderness  lay  on  either  hand.  We  levied  on  the  road- 
side fields  and  rode  with  four-foot  stalks  of  sugarcane 
set  like  flutes  at  our  lips. 

At  noon  we  found  we  were  off  the  trail,  and  after 
vain  attempts  to  discover  the  road  to  Las  Juntas  by 
the  directions  of  passers-by — one  such  trail  leading  for 
a mile  up  an  almost  sheer  slope,  where  we  stumbled 
through  a network  of  vines  behind  the  panting  animals 
and  drove  them  upward  with  quirt  and  word — we 
halted  at  a large  white  house  and  requisitioned  break- 
fast. 

A young  peon  at  this  hacienda  volunteered  to  saddle 
up  and  put  us  on  the  road  to  Abengarez  Gold  Field  and 
Las  Juntas,  and  when  we  promised  him  a colon  for  the 
service  he  became  an  animated  smile.  He  brought  us 
the  greenish  naranjas  (oranges)  of  the  country  as  we  sat 
in  the  shade  of  the  verandah  waiting  for  breakfast,  and 
hung  about  generally  as  if  afraid  we  might  reconsider 
the  offer  and  decamp  without  employing  him. 

When  we  had  eaten  our  meal  of  fried  eggs,  beans, 
tortillas  and  new-made  cheese,  and  drunk  a steaming 
cupful  of  black  coffee  each,  we  paid  the  score  of  “ un 
colon  ” to  the  woman  of  the  house  and  followed  the 
young  peon  back  along  the  way  we  had  come  in  the 
forenoon. 

Our  guide,  machete  at  his  side,  dressed  in  clean  blue 
pyjama-suit,  rode  a tough  little  white  mare  for  whose 


54  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 

unshod  hoofs  no  slope  seemed  too  difficult.  Her  colt, 
a slim  buckskin  beauty,  scampered  along  at  her  heels, 
while  her  master  asked  me  the  names  of  countless 
articles  in  “ Ingles,”  repeating  the  words  after  me  over 
and  over,  until  he  had  memorized  them. 

Near  twilight  we  came  back  to  the  entrance  of  the 
road  to  Las  Juntas.  It  was  a bare  mile  from  our 
lodging-place  of  the  night  before  and  was  gained  by 
passing  through  the  barred  gate  of  a farmer  and  crossing 
his  potrero,  or  pasture.  Since  Las  Juntas  was  five 
hours’  ride  distant  and  the  stock  very  weary,  we  turned 
back  to  the  Company  house  and  unsaddled  in  the  door- 
yard. 

Here  a young  mozo — Rafael  Arroyo  by  name — 
inquired,  in  halting  English,  “ what  we  now  desired  of 
the  people  of  this  house.”  When  we  explained  our 
plight,  all  were  most  hospitable  ; the  women  brought 
out  a decanter  of  guaro  and  filled  cups  for  us.  One 
swallow,  taken  for  courtesy’s  sake,  was  my  limit ; the 
liquor  blazed  a smoking  trail  down  my  gullet  and  sent 
me,  tearful-eyed  and  gasping,  to  the  water-jar. 

After  comida  we  held  English  lessons  for  Rafael’s 
benefit,  with  the  man  of  the  house,  the  big,  courteous 
Spaniard  we  had  met  the  night  before,  an  interested 
listener.  Then  some  boys  came  drifting  through  the 
dusk,  with  guitars  made  of  the  bastard  mahogany  of 
the  country.  They  played  a weird,  native  foxtrot  and 
we  danced  with  booted  feet  upon  the  rough  verandah 
with  the  barefooted  wife  of  the  Spanish  engineer. 
Rafael,  who  seemed  to  be  a sort  of  man-of-all-work 
about  the  place,  volunteered  to  accompany  us  to  Las 
Juntas  and  Don  Pelaya  ; his  “ jefe  ” (boss)  told  him  to 
take  an  ancient  white  mula  for  the  journey.  We 
were  shown  to  the  room  we  had  slept  in  the  night 


SAN  JUAN 


55 


before  and  fell  asleep  to  the  distant  jangle  of  the 
guitars,  as  the  boys  strolled  homeward  in  the  white 
moonlight. 

Rafael  was  late  next  morning.  The  white  mula — 
having  evidently  heard  our  conversation  the  night 
before — hid  away  and  must  be  pursued  throughout  the 
potrero.  But  we  were  gone  before  nine,  straight  up  the 
side  of  a mountain,  as  is  usual  in  Costa  Rica. 

It  was  a “ scenic  ” morning.  With  Rafael  jogging  at 
my  stirrup  on  his  bare-backed  white  mula,  we  rode  over 
mountains  and  through  pleasant,  shady  valleys  where 
the  feet  of  the  animals  scuffed  through  the  thick  carpet 
of  dead  leaves  fallen  from  the  great  trees  that  towered 
high  above  our  heads.  All  about  us  were  the  pink, 
peach-blossomy  blooms  of  the  roible  de  sabana  (oak  of  the 
plain)  and  countless  other  flowering  shrubs  the  names  of 
which  Rafael  gave  me  in  exchange  for  English  words, 
but  for  which  I know  no  equivalents.  Over  us  always 
was  the  serene  blue  sky  of  the  tropics,  flecked  with 
drifting  cirrus  clouds  of  creamy  white ; the  warm, 
scented  air  was  perceptible  as  incense  in  a temple. 

Through  wildernesses  of  the  blossoming  shrubs  we 
came,  across  mountain  brooks  where  whole  families 
stood,  stark-naked  and  naively  heedless  of  the  condition, 
at  their  bath,  huge  gourds  in  their  hands,  intent  upon 
watching  us  pass,  down  giddy  slopes  where  the  inclines 
held  us  breathless  and  we  leaned  back  at  an  acute  angle 
to  the  saddle,  our  toes  at  the  animals’  cheeks ; until 
early  in  the  afternoon  we  rode  out  of  the  jungle  into  a 
land  of  level,  sun-scorched,  dreary  plain,  like  the  alkali 
wastes  of  Texas  or  New  Mexico.  At  one- thirty  we  jogged 
into  the  hamlet  of  San  Juan. 

Here,  in  the  kitchen  of  a Chinese  storekeeper,  we  were 
given  breakfast — the  inevitable  fried  eggs,  black  beans, 


56  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


rice  and  cafe  negro.  The  coffee  was  so  black  and  so 
strong  that  it  stained  our  khaki  trousers  irreparably 
wherever  a drop  fell  upon  them,  and  it  must  inevitably 
have  eaten  away  the  lining  of  our  stomachs  had  we  not 
been  perspiring  so  freely. 

Rafael  ate  like  one  unaccustomed  to  such  plenty — we 
had  stopped  at  his  bare  little  cabin  that  morning  for  a 
stirrup-cup,  and  his  larder  looked  slim — and  we  weren’t 
far  behind  him  in  the  amount  of  food  consumed. 

When  we  came  to  pay  the  Chinese  bandit — a worthy 
descendant  of  Yang-tze  pirates — he  stared  at  his  finger- 
nails and  murmured  blandly,  “ Cuatro  colones  y media, 
caballeros .”  We  protested,  both  Rafael  and  I outdoing 
ourselves  in  volume  of  eloquence,  that  four  and  a half 
colones  was  an  exorbitant  charge  for  an  ordinary  meal 
for  three.  We  called  him  a ladron  grande — a great  thief 
— without  trace  of  shame  or  decency. 

But  it  was  all  to  no  effect.  We  had  eaten  his  food  and 
it  was  for  him  to  decide  its  value.  A scrubby  little 
policeman  beside  the  Chinaman — nibbling  busily  at  a 
banana  from  the  Chinaman’s  stock — began  to  explain 
that  it  was  but  a fair  price,  since  we  had  “ insisted  upon 
eating  and  had  put  the  cook  to  much  trouble.”  Norm 
whirled  upon  the  limb  of  the  law — too  evidently  sub- 
orned by  the  Celestial — with  such  an  emphatic  “ Shut 
up  ! ” that  the  meaning,  if  not  the  words,  was  unmistak- 
able. The  police  force  of  San  Juan  betook  itself,  banana 
and  all,  in  search  of  other  affairs. 

We  paid  the  extortion  and  Rafael  kicked  the  China- 
man’s dog,  so  we  felt  somewhat  compensated.  But 
thereafter,  we  resolved,  we  would  know  the  price  of  a 
Chinaman’s  goods  before  purchasing. 

In  mid-afternoon  we  trotted  into  sleepy  little  Las 
Juntas,  having  skirted  the  edge  of  the  mining-camp  at 


LAS  JUNTAS 


57 


Abengarez,  the  largest  group  of  mines  in  Central  America. 
Las  Juntas,  a clutter  of  wattled  huts  and  adobe  houses 
asprawl  upon  the  flat,  sun-baked  prairie,  hardly  raised 
its  eyes  as  we  rode  in.  But  Rafael,  by  dint  of  a house- 
to-house  canvas,  found  one  ancient  crone  who  owned  a 
'potrero  where  we  might  pasture  the  animals,  and  another 
who  would  serve  us  food.  But  for  beds  we  must  depend 
upon  Don  Salomon  Chajud,  the  Turkish  storekeeper. 
Don  Salomon  was  absent  in  the  country,  but  would 
return  by  dusk. 

We  presented  Rafael  with  a gratuity,  which  he  accepted 
unwillingly,  protesting  that  his  services  had  been  given 
freely  and  without  thought  of  reward.  I promised  to 
send  him  an  English-Spanish  dictionary  and  grammar 
from  the  States,  and  immediately  he  tried  to  force  back 
upon  me  the  billete  we  had  had  so  much  difficulty  in 
persuading  him  to  take.  He  said  good-bye  almost 
tearfully,  and  rode  with  his  chin  on  his  shoulder  until 
the  road  disappeared  behind  the  houses  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  village.  A better  guide  we  had  never  seen, 
we  decided,  as  we  watched  the  old  white  mula  and  her 
stocky,  bowlegged  rider  go  back  toward  Guasimal. 

As  we  sat  in  the  verandah  of  Chajud's  tienda  a yellow 
chwho  galloped  from  the  interior  of  a hut  across  the  way, 
followed  by  loud  imprecations  from  a fat,  barefooted 
Amazon.  The  cur  dragged  a square  of  fresh  cowhide 
behind  him  in  his  flight,  and  before  he  had  gone  twenty 
jumps  a cloud  of  zopilotes  swooped  down  upon  him  from 
what  had  seemed  a clear  sky,  struggling  to  wrest  away 
his  prize.  Time  after  time  the  big,  rusty-feathered 
birds  lifted  both  hide  and  cur  from  the  ground,  the 
chucho  clinging  grimly  to  his  trove.  But  at  last,  like  his 
ancestor  of  the  fable,  the  dog  released  his  grip  to  rescue 
a smaller  piece  torn  from  the  hide  and  so  lost  all. 


58  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


As  Norm  snatched  the  kodak  and  trained  it  on  the 
scene,  appeared  the  town  drunkard,  who  couldn’t  under- 
stand our  interest  in  a common  cur  when  he  and  his  dog 
were  on  the  ground,  willing,  even  anxious,  to  be  photo- 
graphed. He  insisted  upon  interposing  his  guaro- laden 
bulk  between  lens  and  zopibtes,  until  a forcible  remon- 
strance sent  him  permanently  to  the  background. 

The  entire  population  of  Las  Juntas  appeared 
magically  upon  first  glimpse  of  the  kodak.  They  gath- 
ered about  Norm  in  fascinated  circle,  and  one  of  the  clerks 
in  Don  Salomon’s  store  rushed  out  with  a group  of 
children  to  be  pictured.  Their  eagerness  to  have  their 
likeness  recorded,  even  though  I explained  that  we 
couldn’t  develop  the  pictures  there,  was  rather  em- 
barrassing, and  reminded  me  of  a Costa  Rican  proverb 
which  runs  to  the  effect  that  the  Costaricense  will  halt 
a revolution  or  a wedding  to  have  his  portrait  made. 
We  solved  the  problem  in  Las  Juntas  by  standing  them 
up  in  groups,  while  Norm  trained  the  kodak  upon  them 
and,  with  much  gesturing,  gravely  clicked  tongue 
against  teeth  to  produce  the  sound  of  the  snapping 
shutter.  Then  everyone  was  happy. 

The  mail  came  jingling  in  as  we  waited  for  Don 
Salomon,  a Gil  Bias- ish  procession  of  six  big  pack-mules 
bearing  the  leather  mail-bags,  the  train  escorted  by  three 
horsemen  armed  to  the  teeth  as  guard  against  bandits, 
who  not  infrequently,  we  were  told,  rifled  the  mail-sacks. 
The  train  jingled  up  to  the  verandah,  followed  by  all 
the  small  boys  of  the  town,  tossed  down  a mail-bag  and 
trotted  on. 

We  went  to  comida,  served  upon  an  unpainted  mahog- 
any table  in  the  open  space  between  kitchen  and  living- 
room  of  a little  hut  near  the  river.  As  usual,  the  hens, 
their  chicks,  the  dogs,  cats  and  pigs  sat  down  to  meat 


THE  TERRIBLE  TURK 


59 


with  us.  But  the  old  woman  was  clean,  her  coffee  was 
good,  and  she  charged  us  only  the  regulation  half-colon 
per  head  which  all  touristas  are  expected  to  pay  cheer- 
fully. When  we  informed  her  that  we  would  require 
desayuno  the  next  morning,  her  smile  deepened.  For  a 
fleeting  instant  I thought  she  intended  to  reduce  the 
charge  for  our  comida.  But,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  I 
was  mistaken  ; she  merely  replied  that  we  might  eat 
at  seven  in  the  morning. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  store  Don  Salomon  stood  in 
the  doorway  pulling  at  his  moustache.  He  was  the 
town’s  big  man,  both  physically  and  otherwise.  Capital- 
ist, money-lender,  storekeeper,  undertaker,  horse-dealer, 
innkeeper — he  dabbled  in  anything  that  promised  profit 
and  held  it  to  its  promise.  He  was  a Turk  without  a 
drop  of  any  other  blood  in  his  veins,  he  boasted,  a 
paunchy,  heavy-faced  man  with  blue-black  mustachios 
and  little  sharp  black  eyes.  He  agreed  to  furnish  us 
beds,  and  when  darkness  fell  escorted  us  to  a rickety 
annex  adjoining  the  store. 

Our  room  was  above  the  establishment  of  an  old 
negro  shoemaker  and  our  slumbers  were  consequently 
disturbed  until  midnight  by  the  tap-tapping  of  hammer 
on  last.  Then,  some  two  hours  later,  we  were  aroused 
by  the  scream  of  the  high,  gusty  night- wind  of  the 
Guanacaste  Peninsula,  which  threatened  to  tear  the  tin 
roof  from  the  building.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  sheltered 
on  such  a night ; we  burrowed  thankfully  into  the 
blankets  and  fell  asleep  again  while  the  wind  shrieked 
outside. 

It  was  pig-sticking  time  in  Las  Juntas.  An  agonized 
squeal  waked  us  in  the  grey  dawn,  and  we  looked  down 
into  the  back  yard  upon  a doomed  porker  triced  up  for 
butchering.  When  we  went  to  the  old  woman’s  cabin 


60  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


for  breakfast  we  found  the  men  of  her  household  busily 
scraping  a fat  hog  outside  the  kitchen  door. 

Back  at  the  store  we  found  ourselves  confronted  by 
the  ancient  wile  practised  upon  new-comers  in  the  pais. 
The  small  boy  sent  by  Don  Salomon  to  the  potrero  for 
our  stock  returned  with  the  news  that  they  were  “ gone.” 

Jerry  Kingsbury  had  warned  us  about  this  trick,  so 
when  we  heard  the  muchacho’s  report  we  donned  six- 
shooters  and  grim,  threatening  expressions,  then  led 
that  boy  back  to  the  pasture.  I informed  him  as  im- 
pressively as  possible  that  his  sole  interest  in  life  had 
best  be  the  locating  of  our  animals,  and  after  a sullen 
glance  at  the  big  revolvers  he  dived  into  the  brush,  to 
reappear  within  three  minutes  astride  Edna  and  leading 
Solomon. 

Had  we  permitted  the  game  to  reach  its  customary 
denouement,  we  should  have  accepted  the  boy’s  state- 
ment as  fact,  hired  horses  from  Chajud— at  extortionate 
rates — and  a mozo  to  ride  with  us  and  bring  them  back. 
Then,  at  the  next  town,  a telegram  would  have  informed 
us  that  our  stock  had  been  “ foimd  ” and  would  be  de- 
livered if  we  paid  a reward  to  the  finder  and  recompensed 
another  man  for  the  time  spent  in  delivering  them  to  us. 

We  saddled  in  silence — toward  the  onlookers  on 
Chajud’s  verandah,  at  least,  for  our  language  between 
ourselves  was  quite  fluent — and  Don  Salomon  Chajud 
came  forward  to  collect  for  the  various  services  rendered 
during  our  stay  in  Las  Juntas.  We  made  him  cool  his 
heels,  for  that  hurt  his  dignity,  while  we  treated  the 
animals’  ears  with  carbolina  to  rid  them  of  the  garrapaias 
(wood-ticks)  which  infest  the  skins  of  all  animals  let  out 
to  graze  in  Central  American  potreros. 

The  garrapata,  incidentally,  I should  list  as  the 
greatest  pest  experienced  in  travelling  in  Central 


YOUNGER  GENERATION  OF  LAS  JUNTAS. 


ZOPILOTES  AT  PIG-CLEANING  IN  A BACKY'ARD  AT  LAS  JUNTAS. 


GO] 


THE  TRAIL  TO  LAS  CANAS 


61 


America.  It  ranges  in  size  from  the  infant  no  larger 
than  a pinhead  to  the  husky  adult  with  muscular  body 
the  size  of  a man’s  thumbnail.  While  perfectly  catholic 
in  their  taste,  the  garrapatas  seem  to  prefer  a full-blooded 
gringo  to  any  other  item  of  nourishment. 

When  the  last  garrapata  had  died  the  death  by 
carbolic  acid  we  listened  to  Chajud’s  enumeration  of 
the  charges  against  us : Beds,  two  colones ; fifty 
centavos  for  the  boy  who  had,  under  coercion,  produced 
our  stock  ; one  colone  for  the  carbolina  and  fifty  centavos 
for  the  old  woman  who  owned  the  potrero.  It  was  a 
quarter  to  ten  when  we  shook  the  dust  of  Las  Juntas 
from  the  beasts’  feet  and  turned  north,  in  bad  temper 
and  calling  down  all  manner  of  blights  upon  the 
pueblo. 

We  were  out  of  the  mountainous  region  for  the  time. 
There  were  a few  hills  to  climb,  but  none  of  them  were 
steep,  and  we  trotted  sometimes  for  an  hour  along  a 
perfectly  level  trail  over  a lovely,  fertile  country,  where 
cattle  and  horses  stood  knee-deep  in  green  herbage,  and 
white  houses  nestled  in  clumps  of  trees  and  flowering 
bushes.  Women  and  girls  came  to  the  doorways  and 
smiled  at  us,  and  the  men  working  in  the  fields  waved 
and  wished  us  “ buenas  dias  ” as  we  rode  past. 

So  we  jogged  along  contentedly,  our  irritation  fading 
in  the  soft,  spring-like  air  of  the  forenoon.  We  expected 
to  make  Las  Canas — " The  Canes  ” — by  early  afternoon, 
for  Don  Salomon  had  assured  us  the  night  before  that 
it  was  but  four  hours’  ride — “ no  mas.”  We  occupied 
the  time  by  holding  target  practice  on  the  foot- long 
garroba  lizards  and  great  spike-backed  iguanas  that 
scuttled  with  awkward  speed  along  the  trail  ahead  of 
the  animals. 

As  usual,  we  got  off  the  trail.  From  the  rolling, 


62  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


sunny  plains,  dotted  with  the  little  cultivated  patches 
and  wattled  cabins  of  the  peones,  we  rode  into  the 
depths  of  thick  jungle,  where  the  way  became  a faintly 
marked  bridlepath  over  dead  leaves,  with  never  a house 
for  miles.  Edna  was  in  a tantrum,  for,  like  many 
ladies,  shooting  made  her  nervous.  When  I scratched 
a match  to  light  a cigarette  she  bounded  suddenly 
sideways  from  the  trail,  landing  in  a clump  of  vines 
and  nettles  which  brought  her  to  her  knees.  I con- 
tinued on  my  way  alone  for  eight  or  ten  feet,  describing 
a complete  revolution  in  the  air  and  landing,  very 
fortunately,  on  my  feet. 

When  Norm  had  overtaken  and  brought  Edna  back, 
we  rode  on  and  came  shortly  afterward  to  a lone  farm 
hewed  out  of  the  jungle.  A bakers’  dozen  of  mangy 
curs,  vicious  and  hungry  of  expression,  leaped  out  to 
meet  us,  snapping  wolfishly  at  our  booted  legs,  and 
were  repelled  only  when  we  laid  three  of  them  senseless 
with  the  loaded  butts  of  our  quirts. 

A man  sprawled  in  a hammock  on  the  verandah. 
He  was  apparently  in  the  eighty-second — which  is  the 
most  malignant — stage  of  hookworm,  for  our  attack 
upon  his  dogs,  usually  the  insult  unforgivable  in  that 
land,  produced  not  the  slightest  flicker  of  emotion  upon 
his  face.  He  informed  us  without  apparent  interest 
that  the  road  to  Las  Canas  lay  behind  us  a mile  or 
more.  We  should  have  taken  the  fork  to  the  left  at 
the  little  clearing,  he  said,  then  composed  himself  once 
more  for  slumber. 

We  rode  back  to  the  clearing,  with  the  curs  snapping 
at  our  heels  for  a hundred  yards  or  more  until  Norm, 
turning  in  his  saddle,  put  a brace  of  bullets  into  the 
ground  near  them.  At  the  clearing  we  found  a faint 
path  leading  to  the  left,  turned  into  it  and  followed  it 


WE  IGNORE  PETTY  DISCOMFORTS  63 

\ 

for  a mile  or  so — back  to  the  lone  house  and  the  sleeping 
man. 

He  was  aroused  with  increased  difficulty  and  per- 
suaded to  sell  us  seven  bananas  from  the  bunch  ripening 
under  the  verandah  eaves.  Then  we  rode  hurriedly 
back  once  more,  before  he  could  give  us  further  instruc- 
tions as  to  the  trail.  This  time,  at  a point  nearly  three 
miles  past  the  clearing,  we  came  upon  the  right  trail. 

At  the  first  house  on  this  road  we  hailed  the  inmates. 
A shock-headed,  dirty  hombre  appeared  in  the  doorway 
and  informed  us  that  it  was  still  two  hours’  ride  to 
the  town,  but  refused  us  food.  An  old.  man  rushed  to 
the  door  and  in  high,  cracked  treble  screamed  that  we 
would  get  “ Nada  ! Nada  ! Nada  ! ” (“  Nothing  ! ”)  at 
that  house.  We  rode  on,  wondering  at  the  old  man’s 
animosity  and  puzzling  over  the  significance  of  the 
rudely  outlined  Greek  cross  upon  the  house-door. 

One  develops  an  Indian-like  stolidity,  an  ability  to 
ignore  petty  discomforts  such  as  lack  of  food  for  a few 
weeks,  or  vermin-infested  quarters  regularly,  when  on 
the  trail  in  the  Five  Republics.  We  were  both  raven- 
ously hungry,  for  we  had  broken  our  fast  in  Las  Juntas 
with  nothing  more  substantial  than  a cup  of  coffee  and 
a tiny  roll  apiece — “ a canary-bird  breakfast,”  Norm 
had  growled — but  we  were  both  optimistically  agreed 
that  we  must  eventually  reach  Las  Canas  and  there 
make  up  at  dinner-time  what  we  had  lacked  at  noon. 

As  we  jogged  along  we  occupied  the  time,  as  in  the 
morning,  with  improvement  of  our  marksmanship  by 
snapshots  at  iguanas  and  garrobas.  A native  whom 
we  overtook  while  watering  his  pony  at  a roadside 
stream  seemed  to  enjoy  our  company.  He  trotted 
behind  us,  exclaiming  ecstatically  whenever  a lizard 
came  toppling  from  a treetop.  He  kept  with  us  until 


64  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


we  reached  the  Rio  Las  Canas — filled  with  splashing, 
shouting  youngsters — and  rode  into  the  straggling  little 
town. 

At  the  one  hotel  the  proprietress,  buxom,  comely, 
smiling  apologetically,  appeared  in  answer  to  our  shouts, 
to  inform  us  with  profuse  regret  that  every  room  in  her 
house  was  filled  by  an  influx  of  travellers  from  Liberia, 
the  capital  of  the  department.  But  we  were  famishing, 
for  ours  were  the  appetites  of  outdoor  men — ravenous, 
Gargantuan,  beyond  the  ken  of  city- dwellers — so  we 
stood  fast  and  protested  that  we  couldn't  sleep  in  the 
street,  and  that  if  she  turned  us  away  we  should 
certainly  die  of  starvation  on  her  doorstep. 

At  last  she  dimpled  and  we  knew  the  battle  was 
won.  The  stableman  was  called  and  ordered  to  put 
the  stock  in  the  hotel’s  pasture,  while  a little  chamber- 
maid went  scurrying  out  into  town  to  borrow  cots  for  us. 

When  we  looked  at  the  reflection  of  our  dirty,  un- 
shaven faces  in  the  mirror  and  surveyed  our  generally 
unkempt  appearance,  it  no  longer  surprised  us  that  the 
landlady  hadn’t  taken  us  to  her  ample,  stiff-starched 
bosom.  The  marvel  was  that  she  had  permitted  two 
such  hardbitten  machos  inside  her  tidy  house  at  all. 

The  Costaricense  of  better  degree — and  the  peon 
travelling  doesn’t  patronize  hotels — is  usually  clean- 
shaven and  carefully,  if  not  elegantly,  dressed  in  white 
duck  or  linen  trousers,  white  shirt  and  expensive 
panama  hat.  If  riding,  leather  puttees  are  added  to 
the  costume.  He  may  indeed  be  bare  of  feet,  for  some 
of  the  richer  natives,  even,  will  not  be  persuaded  to 
don  shoes.  In  fact,  it  is  told  of  one  very  wealthy 
coffee-planter  of  humble  beginnings  that  he  once 
possessed  a burning  desire  to  visit  the  States.  At  the 
steamer- office  in  San  Jose  he  made  all  arrangements 


THE  POLICEMAN’S  STATISTICS 


65 


for  accommodations,  then  went  the  round  of  his  friends, 
telling  them  of  the  wonderful  journey  he  was  going  to 
make.  Someone  informed  him  that  in  North  America 
everyone  wore  shoes.  He  hastened  to  the  ticket-agent 
to  verify  this  alarming  rumour,  and,  upon  being  assured 
of  its  truth,  straightway  cancelled  his  booking.  He 
said  that  he  had  lived  for  forty-odd  years  without 
torturing  his  feet  and  wouldn’t  commence  in  middle  age  ! 

Bathed  and  shaved  and  full-fed,  we  wandered  through 
the  peaceful,  quaint  streets  of  the  town,  past  groups 
of  white-clad  folk  promenading  toward  the  plaza  by 
the  church.  We  turned  back  to  the  hotel,  to  sit  upon 
a bench  in  the  cool  dusk  outside  the  door  and  speculate, 
over  half  a dozen  cigarettes,  how  long  a white  man  of 
energetic  temperament  could  retain  his  sanity  in  such 
an  enervating  atmosphere. 

If  one  had  seen  completion  of  every  plan  conceived 
in  life,  had  tucked  in  the  last  loose  end  of  his  activities 
and  only  waited,  in  resignation,  for  the  Great  Adventure 
that  closes  earthly  existence,  then  Las  Canas  would  be 
an  ideal  place  of  residence.  Hanging  over  it  is  the 
drowsy  quiet  at  even-fall,  the  solemn  hush  associated 
in  one’s  mind  with  mossy,  ruined  abbeys  ; it  is  as  lazily 
peaceful  as  the  picture  of  a rustic  landscape  at  twilight, 
done  in  sepia.  Even  the  squealing  wooden  axles  of  the 
ox-carts  seemed  less  noisy  as  they  moved  slowly  through 
these  dusty  streets. 

While  we  waited  for  our  coffee  next  morning  we  were 
joined  by  a conversational  little  policeman,  who  gave 
us,  as  strangers  within  the  gates,  varied  information 
concerning  the  town.  Now,  I detest  statistics  for  their 
own  sake,  finding  no  beauties  in  their  angular  figures ; 
hence  they  are  interpolated  here  with  all  possible 
brevity,  in  all  their  unloveliness.  Las  Canas,  a town  of 
5 


66  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


nearly  five  hundred  people  and  uncounted  dogs,  lies 
some  five  hundred  feet  above  the  Gulf  of  Nicoya,  which 
is  ten  miles  distant,  and  is  the  metropolis  of  the  orange- 
growing district  of  Costa  Rica.  We  found  the  land- 
lady’s coffee  much  more  to  our  taste  than  the  policeman’s 
data.  Orange  trees  grow  everywhere  in  this  region  ; 
no  house  was  too  poor,  too  lowly,  to  be  surrounded  by 
the  heavily  burdened  shrubs.  But  the  naranja  of 
Central  America  is  only  a plebeian  poor  relation  of  the 
golden  globe  of  California  or  Florida.  Greenish  yellow 
when  ripe,  it  is  filled  with  large  seeds  and  rather  insipid 
of  flavour. 

As  we  lingered  over  our  coffee  and  cigarettes  in  the 
dining-room  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  American 
who  gave  us  the  benefit  of  his  twenty- six  years  in  the 
Five  Republics.  No  dreary  statistician  he,  with  array 
of  cold  and  bloodless  figures.  Each  fact  he  cited  was 
illustrated  by  object  or  colourful  anecdote.  So  when 
he  spoke  of  the  peculiar  system  by  which  municipal 
affairs  are  administered  in  Costa  Rica,  he  pointed  out  a 
short-waisted,  long-legged  native  with  Paderewski-like 
hair,  just  then  passing  the  door  at  a peculiar  limping 
canter. 

“ That  fellow,”  said  Mr.  Hopkins,  “ was  Tesorero 
Municipal  (Municipal  Treasurer)  of  Las  Canas  a few 
years  ago.  Now  he  owns  a livery-stable  and  doesn’t 
do  very  well.  The  reason  for  the  change  is — rats.  He 
had  collected  ten  thousand  colones  when  an  investigat- 
ing committee  came  up  from  San  Jose  to  inspect  his 
accounts.  He  welcomed  the  committee  very  cordially 
and  escorted  the  members  into  his  office. 

“ When  they  finished  the  inspection  of  his  books — 
which  showed  the  collection  of  the  money  in  proper 
form — they  asked  to  count  the  cash.  He  went  to  his 


WHAT  THE  RATS  DID 


67 


desk  and  threw  back  the  top,  then  announced  in 
anguished  tones  that  the  ten  thousand  colones — all  in 
billetes,  or  notes — were  gone  ! 

“ ‘ Well,  where  did  it  go  ? ’ demanded  a practical- 
minded  committee-man. 

“ ‘ Gentlemen/  replied  the  Treasurer  simply,  £ I 
cannot  lie  to  you.  The  rats  must  have  eaten  it.’  ” 

“ Did  they  arrest  him  ? ” we  wanted  to  know,  and 
Mr.  Hopkins  shook  his  head. 

“ What  was  the  use  ? Everyone  in  town  knew  that 
he  didn’t  have  a cent.  They  decided  that  it  was  useless 
to  lock  him  up,  or  shoot  him,  if  that  wouldn’t  produce 
the  money. 

“ A friend  and  I went  into  his  livery-stable  a few 
weeks  ago  and  rented  horses  from  him.  When  we 
came  to  pay  the  bills — for  identical  service,  mind  you — 
we  found  that  I was  charged  sixteen  colones,  which  was 
exorbitant,  while  my  friend  was  let  off  with  four,  which 
was  about  six  colones  under  regular  rates.  Naturally, 
I hauled  him  over  the  coals  for  his  discrepancy  in 
charging  for  the  same  service.  But  he  shrugged  and 
threw  out  his  hands. 

“ £ Why,  Senor  Hopkins,’  he  protested,  ‘ if  I hadn’t 
charged  you  sixteen  colones,  I couldn’t  have  let  your 
good  friend  off  for  four.’ 

“ Now,  I ask  you,  what  could  I answer  to  that  'i  ” 

Getting  Solomon  the  King  out  of  the  pasture  proved 
a long  and  difficult  undertaking.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
interest  in  the  continuation  of  the  journey  and  hid  him- 
self in  long  grass  that  covered  him  to  the  tips  of  his  long 
ears.  For  the  second  time  in  my  life  I had  to  turn  cow- 
puncher.  After  a headlong  chase  for  some  three  miles, 
with  Edna  at  his  heels  like  a little  red  Nemesis,  I managed 
to  drop  the  loop  of  a lariat  over  his  head.  Edna  swerved 


68  JOGGING  THROUGH  THE  FOOTHILLS 


off  and  braced  herself  like  an  old  hand  at  the  game,  and 
our  doughty  macho  came  head- over-heels  in  mid-gallop. 
He  was  tame  enough  after  his  tumble,  and  followed 
quietly  behind  the  mare  to  the  hotel  door. 

It  had  been  our  intention  to  go  on  directly  to  Bagacas, 
but  Mr.  Hopkins  advised  us  to  turn  aside  toward 
Bebedero  and  inspect  the  Hacienda  Mojica,  the  largest 
cattle-ranch  in  all  Costa  Rica.  So  wTe  delayed  departure 
until  noon  and  gave  the  animals  a huge  ration  of  maize. 


CHAPTER  III 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


Ratting  Mahogany  at  Bebedebo — When  the  “ Congos  ” 
roabed — Costa  Rican  Cowpunching — A Guanacaste  Town — 
Trading  Mounts  at  Liberia — Flat  on  the  Prairie — Chill  Wel- 
come at  Santa  Rosa — A “ Typical,  Tropical  Tramp  ” — Customs 
Inspection  at  La  Cruz 

WE  were  in  the  saddle  immediately  after  break- 
fast. The  stock,  fresh  from  their  long  rest 
and  further  inspired,  perhaps,  by  the  maize, 
foxtrotted  along  a dusty  trail  that  reminded  me  vividly 
of  Texas.  On  either  hand  the  scrub  timber  walled  in 
the  road,  which  was  pitted  and  scored  by  the  wheels 
of  the  ox-carts  which  had  passed  during  the  rainy 
season.  Throughout  all  this  region  were  few  signs  of 
cultivation,  for  we  had  left  behind  the  section  where 
small  farmers  predominated  and  come  into  the  ranch- 
land  of  Costa  Rica,  where  the  cattle  barons  hold  broad 
acres  of  rolling  grassland  upon  which  they  fatten  the 
steers  bought  in  Nicaragua  for  the  market  at  Alajuela. 

Except  for  the  machete-hacked  trails  through  the 
scrub  and  an  occasional  burned  area  that  marked  where 
some  adventurous,  land-hungry  native  was  taking  up  a 
Government  grant,  there  were  almost  no  signs  of  human 
effort.  Occasionally  a horseman  ambled  toward  us, 
to  lift  his  hand  in  greeting  and  ride  on,  or  an  ox-cart, 
drawn  by  great,  red,  long-horned  bullocks,  squealed  past. 
The  telegraph-wire  was  our  guide,  but  the  trail  along 

69 


70 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


it  grew  so  rough  that  we  turned  aside  into  the  jungle 
to  hunt  out  abetter  road,  at  whatever  risk  of  going  astray. 
But  when  we  had  pushed  through  a hundred  yards  of 
thorny  bushes  and  saddle-high  nettles,  we  decided  that 
the  open  trail  along  the  lina  telegrafico,  however  pitted 
and  cut,  was  better  than  pioneering. 

Our  return  to  the  “ wire  ” was  rewarded  by  fairly 
smooth  going  within  a mile,  and  we  spurred  the  animals 
into  a jogtrot  once  more,  holding  the  usual  target- 
practice  upon  garroba  and  iguana — much  to  Edna’s 
disgust — with  which  the  land  seemed  aswarm.  Once 
we  fired  a few  shots  at  a slim,  yellow  beast  that  sneaked 
off  with  belly  to  the  leaves,  moving  with  a swiftness  and 
silence  almost  uncanny.  It  was  our  first  glimpse  of  the 
leon — the  panther  of  Central  America — in  its  “ own 
homeland,”  and  the  fractious  Edna  came  in  for  a full 
round  of  abuse,  for  the  exhibition  of  fancy  bucking  with 
which  she  spoiled  our  aim. 

We  jogged  on,  with  the  animals  padding  over  the  dead 
leaves  that  carpeted  the  trail,  heads  almost  between  their 
knees,  while  we  lounged  in  the  saddle  and  watched  the 
exhibit  of  natural  history  all  about  us.  The  silence  of 
the  wilds  was  heavy  upon  us,  breeding  a reluctance  to 
speak.  Then  suddenly,  from  the  thick  jungle  to  the  left, 
sounded  a hoarse,  coughing  bellow  like  that  of  a hungry 
lion.  I whirled  in  the  saddle  and  came  near  to  going 
headfirst  into  a clump  of  nettles,  for  Edna  went  into  the 
air  with  a convulsive  bound,  and  but  for  the  heavy  curb 
with  which  I controlled  her  destinies,  would  have  bolted 
back  along  the  way  we  had  come. 

For  a couple  of  minutes  I was  too  much  occupied 
in  maintaining  the  mastery  of  man  over  brute  to  con- 
sider the  unearthly  roar  which  had  caused  Edna’s  sudden 
display  of  energy.  Then  Norm  turned,  with  a mixture 


STRANGE  NOISES  71 

of  puzzlement  and  uneasiness  showing  in  his  narrowed 
eyes,  to  wonder  aloud  what  the  noise  could  be. 

“ A bull,  and  irritated  about  something,”  I replied 
as  carelessly  as  possible.  “ Haven’t  you  heard  a couple 
of  toros  squabbling  to  the  same  tune  ? ” 

Since  this  was  the  cattle-country  we  were  crossing, 
my  conjecture  seemed  reasonable  enough,  but  with  the 
coming  of  evening  shadows  one  is  always  in  danger  of 
losing  the  proper  perspective,  especially  in  a country 
where  both  jaguars  and  panthers  grow  to  an  utterly 
improper  size.  Why  too  should  Edna,  a Costa  Rican- 
bred  mare,  display  such  terror  at  the  sound  of  a bull’s 
brazen  bass  ? She  had  carried  me  through  herds  of  the 
half- wild  cattle  of  the  land  before  this,  without  showing 
the  slightest  evidence  of  interest,  even,  in  their  presence. 
So  I argued  out  the  matter  mentally  as  we  plodded 
along. 

Then,  simultaneously  from  several  directions,  came  a 
chorus  of  booming,  roaring  bellows  ending  in  short, 
hoarse  coughs,  at  which  Edna  was  again  seized  with 
panic.  The  sounds  brought  back  to  me  the  memory 
of  Hawthorne’s  description  of  the  Minotaur,  voicing 
his  blood-hunger  in  semi-human  roars  as  he  paced  rest- 
lessly through  the  passages  of  the  Cretan  labyrinth. 

So  when  Norm  turned  upon  the  impassive  Solomon  to 
declare  emphatically,  “ That’s  no  bull ! ” I nodded 
agreement  and  shifted  the  white  butt  of  the  six-gun  a 
trifle  closer  to  my  pistol-hand,  taking  comfort  from  its 
nearness.  So  we  rode  on,  a little  more  rapidly  than  be- 
fore, with  the  roaring  chorus  swelling  and  subsiding  and 
swelling  again,  all  about  us,  but  with  no  idea  as  to  its 
origin. 

Perhaps  forty-five  minutes  later  the  trail  widened, 
became  more  plainly  marked  with  ruts  of  ox-carts.  We 


72 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


saw  cleared  patches,  planted  with  sugarcane  and  plan- 
tains, and  then  a small  hut  with  several  men  lounging 
before  it  in  the  shade  of  a matapala.  They  gave  us  water 
and  one  asked  if  we  wanted  food.  He  pointed  toward 
the  back  of  the  house  and  we  followed  him  to  the  rear, 
where  a woman  was  working  busily,  cleaning  the  carcass 
of  a great  iguana.  It  was  for  comida,  the  man  said,  but 
we  declined  with  thanks.  There  were  occasions,  later  on, 
when  an  iguana-steak  would  have  been  very  welcome, 
but  not  then.  There  was  too  much  of  the  snake  about 
the  skinned  body  of  the  great  lizard. 

Under  the  blazing  sun  of  late  afternoon  we  came  to 
the  Rio  Bebedero  at  the  town  of  the  same  name  and  drew 
rein  on  the  long,  rickety  bridge  to  watch  men  assembling 
a huge  raft  of  chained  mahogany  logs  for  floating  down- 
stream to  the  Gulf  of  Nicoya  and  the  waiting  ships. 
Once  past  the  little  collection  of  thatched  huts  that 
flanked  the  road,  we  turned  through  a gate  into  the 
lands  of  the  Hacienda  Mojica  and  loped  across  a rolling 
prairie  that  stretched  away  to  the  foothills  miles  to  the 
north-west. 

Here  are  thousands  of  acres  of  the  finest  grazing-land 
I have  ever  seen  in  any  country,  well  watered  by  numer- 
ous unfailing  streams,  the  grass  bright  green,  although 
no  rain  had  fallen  for  four  months.  The  soil  has  never 
felt  the  bite  of  ploughshare,  though  it  is  suitable,  we  were 
told,  for  all  varieties  of  grain  and  vegetables.  Land  in 
this  vicinity  brings  almost  nothing  ; several  thousand 
acres  were  being  sold  at  the  time  of  our  arrival  at  prices 
of  two  and  three  dollars  gold  per  acre. 

Except  for  an  occasional  barbed- wire  fence,  there  was 
the  impression  of  illimitable  distance  as  the  animals 
loped  nose-to-nose  along  the  prairie-track,  with  the 
high,  dry  wind  of  the  Guanacaste  whipping  at  our 


COSTA  RICAN  HOSPITALITY 


73 


Stetsons.  Half  an  hour  of  steady  riding  brought  us  to 
the  hacienda,  a squat,  yellow  building  of  two  stories, 
encircled  by  broad,  stone-paved  verandah,  near  a clump 
of  great  trees. 

All  about  the  house  grew  the  huge  matapalas,  their 
lustrous  green  foliage  affording  dense  shade  for  the  door- 
yard.  On  the  right  of  the  house,  a hundred  yards 
distant,  was  the  horse-corral,  with  milking-corral  ad- 
joining. We  noted  a water- tank  mounted  on  a mule- 
cart,  modem  hay-tedders,  ploughs  and  other  implements 
that  made  Mojica  seem  more  than  ever  a bit  of  Texas 
set  down  upon  Costa  Rican  prairies. 

The  same  gracious  hospitality  that  greets  the  way- 
farer in  our  own  south-west  was  shown  us  by  Don  Aurelio 
Guell,  the  manager,  who  had  our  animals  taken  to  the 
corral  and  assigned  us  a big  bedroom  in  the  upper  floor 
of  the  house.  Then  we  went  in  to  the  dinner-table. 

It  was  an  interesting  meal,  for  the  foremen  of  the  six 
ranches  which  constitute  the  property  of  Mojica  had  been 
called  in  for  a consultation  and  we  got  an  insight  into  the 
difficulties  under  which  a manager  of  modern  training 
labours  when  he  tries  to  modernize  a Central  American 
ranch. 

The  talk  was  of  silos,  which  Don  Aurelio  told  us  had 
been  very  successful  in  other  sections  of  the  republic 
and  which  he  considered  installing  on  Mojica.  But  all 
the  foremen  condemned  them  loudly.  The  foreman  of 
Mojica — the  home-ranch — was  particularly  violent.  He 
was  a thick-shouldered  man,  slightly  stooped,  who  ate 
with  his  chin  barely  above  the  level  of  the  table.  In  the 
intervals  of  shovelling  rice  and  beans  into  a capacious 
mouth,  he  glared  down  at  the  manager,  waving  his  knife 
excitedly.  The  burden  of  his  discourse — which  is  the 
reply  of  the  native  to  any  proposal  to  raise  him  from  the 


74 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


rut  of  ancient  customs — was  that  his  father  and  his 
father’s  father  had  lived  and  died  on  a cattle-ranch 
without  ever  laying  eyes  on  a silo  ; it  was  an  impudent 
interference  with  the  divine  plan  of  Providence  to 
attempt  to  provide  feed  for  the  stock  during  the  seasons 
God  had  decreed  scant  pasturage.  If  the  Lord  hadn’t 
intended  the  cattle  to  go  hungry  (yelled  this  apostle  of 
anti-change),  then  every  year  would  be  one  of  plenty. 
He  was  against  these  new-fangled  ideas.  The  other 
foremen,  each  responsible,  under  Don  Aurelio,  for  a 
ranch,  shouted  approval  of  these  views  and  Guell  looked 
across  at  us  whimsically. 

Don  Aurelio  hadn’t  been  out  of  Costa  Rica  since  his 
graduation  from  the  University  of  Louisiana,  twelve 
years  before.  We  found  many  things  to  discuss  after 
dinner,  and  midnight  rolled  around  almost  before  we 
realized  it. 

After  breakfast  next  morning  we  sat  for  a time  with 
Don  Aurelio  in  his  office,  a cool,  dusky  room  littered 
with  saddles,  alforjas,  branding-irons,  cases  of  shiny 
veterinary  instruments — the  pride  of  the  manager, 
these  last — and  shelves  of  agronomical  volumes  and 
bound  reports.  Don  Aurelio  bore  out  the  reputation 
for  knowledge  of  agriculture  in  general  and  the  cattle- 
industry  in  particular  which  Mr.  Hopkins  had  given  him. 

It  was  especially  interesting  to  compare  the  methods 
and  conditions  upon  this,  the  largest  property  in  Costa 
Rica,  with  those  of  the  Texas  ranches  as  I had  known 
them.  Don  Aurelio’s  account  of  the  difficulties  he  had 
encountered  in  improving  the  breed  of  cattle  and  horses 
by  importations  from  the  States  and  England,  of  replac- 
ing the  ancient  machinery  of  the  Spaniards  "with  modern 
equipment  such  as  he  had  learned  to  use  in  Louisiana, 
contained  many  such  incidents  as  that  of  the  night 


S A VOX  ERAS  (COWBOYS)  OX  HACIENDA  MOJICA. 


71] 


DESERTED  HUT  WHERE  WE  SPEXT  A XIGHT,  XEAR  THE  XICARAGUAX 

FRONTIER. 


A COSTA  RICAN  RANCH 


75 


before,  and  the  tale  of  his  pioneering  was  sometimes 
humorous,  but  more  often  pathetic.  Back  of  it  all  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I saw  the  shadow  of  the  man’s 
indefatigable  personality  bulking  very  large. 

Mojica,  before  Don  Aurelio’s  time,  was  a fair  specimen 
of  the  Costa  Rican  ranch.  The  owner  had  seized  it 
while  president  of  the  republic,  years  before,  and  was 
now  negotiating  with  a syndicate  for  its  sale,  for  a price 
of  two  million  eight  hundred  thousand  colones,  or  about 
a million  dollars  in  gold.  But  before  the  negotiations 
could  be  completed  it  was  necessary  to  count  the  cattle 
on  the  six  ranches  of  Miravalles,  Catalina,  Ciruelas, 
Palo  Verde,  San  Jeronimo  and  Mojica,  which,  grouped, 
are  known  simply  as  the  Hacienda  Mojica.  Nobody 
had  anything  approximating  an  accurate  estimate  of 
the  number  of  head  of  stock.  So  Don  Aurelio  was 
counting  the  herds  by  means  of  the  running-iron  ; each 
animal  was  counted,  branded  with  a circle-tipped  iron, 
then  released.  With  some  twenty-odd  thousand  cattle, 
five  thousand  horses  and  a few  hogs  to  account  for, 
this  alone  was  a sizable  task. 

Horses  were  saddled  for  us  by  the  savoneras,  wild, 
picturesque  riders  in  coarse  cotton  shirts  and  trousers, 
barefooted,  with  fringed  leather  leggings  much  like  the 
chaparejos  or  “ chaps  ” of  the  American  puncher,  but 
fitting  the  leg  more  tightly.  They  wore  huge  brass  or 
iron  spurs  buckled  to  bare  heels,  and  they  swaggered 
when  they  walked  and  looked  down  upon  the  peones 
who  were  labourers,  not  cowboys,  even  though  the 
labourer’s  wage  was  thirty  colones  a month,  with  food 
and  lodging,  while  that  of  the  savonera  varied  from 
fifteen  to  twenty-five.  But  the  peon  had  to  walk,  while 
the  cowboy  rode,  and  that,  in  any  Latinized  country, 
makes  a difference  ! 


76 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


They  had  never  seen  stock-saddles  such  as  ours,  and 
many  were  the  naive  comments  we  overheard  as  we 
hauled  on  our  cinch-straps  in  the  corral.  The  saddle- 
horns  particularly  impressed  them.  They  thought  that 
the  rider  would  be  in  danger  of  rupturing  himself  by 
falling  against  them.  When  Don  Aurelio  tried  to 
explain  that  with  such  saddles  the  American  puncher 
could  ride  the  worst  animals  with  greater  ease  than 
they,  upon  their  flat,  pad-like  saddles  of  untanned 
cowhide,  they  merely  nudged  each  other  knowingly. 
For  the  white  beast  assigned  me  was  one  of  reputation 
for  “ orneriness,”  the  fastest  animal  on  the  ranch,  sired 
by  an  English  thoroughbred,  and  out  of  a man-killing 
Arab-Peruvian  mare.  So  the  savoneras  thought  that 
the  coming  ride  would  prove  the  respective  merits  of 
the  saddles. 

With  a half-dozen  savoneras  and  the  mandador  de 
campo,  the  “ range  foreman,”  we  started  on  a tour  of 
the  home-ranch.  The  cowboys  rode  “ all  over  ” their 
scrubby  ponies — on  the  withers,  the  croup,  or  clinging 
to  the  side.  Their  saddles  were  nothing  more  than  a 
thin  pad  made  by  sewing  a mat  of  rushes  between  two 
cowhides  with  hair  outside.  When  the  hides  had  been 
stripped  from  a white  or  spotted  cow,  the  saddle  was 
a thing  of  colour.  Their  stirrups  amused  us  greatly, 
for  they  were  tiny  iron  cups,  dangling  from  a cowhide 
string,  in  which  the  cowboy  nonchalantly  hooked  a 
great  toe  to  steady  himself.  The  end  of  the  rawhide 
or  sisal  lariat  was  fastened  to  a rawhide  loop  on  the 
fore  part  of  the  saddle,  instead  of  to  the  horn  as  with  us. 

We  were  anxious  to  see  these  cowboys  use  their  ropes, 
so  a small  herd  of  steers  was  combed  from  the  jungle 
adjoining  an  open  pasture  and  with  whirling  loops  and 
shrill  yells  the  savoneras  dashed  down  upon  the  herd. 


COSTA  RICAN  COWPUNCHING 


77 


They  handled  their  lasso-ropes  in  much  the  same 
fashion  as  we  do  in  the  cattle-country  of  the  States,  but 
we  thought  them  sadly  lacking  in  the  skill  that  marks 
our  knights  of  rope  and  branding-iron.  Will  Rogers 
would  have  laughed — or  cried — to  see  them. 

A bad  bull — at  least,  they  said  he  was  vicious — was 
cut  out  from  the  herd  and  with  a half-dozen  lariats 
about  his  horns  and  hoofs  went  crashing  to  the  earth. 
Here — to  all  appearances — he  fell  peacefully  asleep. 
The  cowboys  whooped  their  triumph,  we  applauded 
dutifully,  and  everyone  was  happy. 

We  galloped  back  to  the  house  across  prairies  covered 
with  tall,  green-yellow  guinea  and  para  grass,  then, 
turning  from  the  plain,  rode  under  a jungle-roof  from 
which  swung  monkeys  of  every  colour  from  pure  red  to 
coal-black,  with  parrots,  tiny  parakeets  and  the  great 
gaudily  coloured  macaws  by  the  hundreds  screaming 
harshly  as  they  made  off  before  us.  Suddenly  a chorus 
of  the  bellowing  roars  we  had  heard  the  day  before 
broke  out  from  the  jungle  ahead,  and  Don  Aurelio,  after 
listening  to  our  account  of  Edna’s  behaviour  the 
preceding  afternoon,  offered  to  show  us  the  animal 
which  had  frightened  us — I mean  the  mare. 

We  reined  in  to  a walk  and  kept  close  watch  upon 
the  treetops.  For  a time  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen 
in  the  branches  except  the  droves  of  red  monkeys  with 
white  faces,  and  black-and-tan  monkeys  which  swung 
along  abreast  of  us,  now  driving  headlong  across  the 
trail,  to  the  huge  delight  of  the  little  ones  borne  on 
their  mothers’  backs.  Then  one  of  the  savoneras  riding 
ahead  of  us  pulled  his  horse  to  a sudden  halt  and  with 
finger  upon  his  lips  to  enjoin  silence  pointed  upward 
into  a huge  guanacaste  tree,  the  top  of  which  unfurled 
a hundred  feet  above  our  heads. 


78 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


At  first  I could  see  nothing  except  dense  foliage, 
then,  by  employing  the  Indian  trick  of  regarding  all 
but  what  I sought  as  frame  for  that  object,  I made  out  a 
black  splotch  upon  a great  gnarled  limb.  As  I stared 
it  moved  slightly  and  became  a hairy,  dog-like  face, 
black  as  ebony,  with  twinkling  eyes  like  twin  jet  beads. 

Before  Norm  could  reach  for  the  kodak  the  whole 
body  came  into  view,  a squat  baboon  whose  dusky  hide 
was  unrelieved  by  a single  lighter  hair.  Then  Sir 
Congo,  to  give  him  the  native  name,  swung  off  to  deeper 
jungle  with  a speed  far  surpassing  that  of  the  red  and 
parti-coloured  monkeys  with  which  he  sometimes  mingles 
amiably.  His  arrival  in  a more  secluded  spot  was 
signalled  by  a single,  triumphant  roar,  for  except  in 
early  morning  and  late  afternoon  the  Congo  is  imbued 
with  deep  taciturnity. 

The  Congo  is  harmless,  and  very  shy.  Don  Aurelio 
could  advance  no  explanation  for  Edna’s  nervousness 
before  their  appalling  roars.  Certainly  any  horse  bred 
in  the  republic  must  be  familiar  with  the  sound,  but 
she  acted  always  as  if  panic-stricken  whenever  the 
trail  led  through  the  jungle  and  the  bellowing  came  to 
her  ears.  It  may  be  that  one  pulled  her  tail  in  colthood. 
Quien  sabe  ? 

The  savoneras,  slyly  anxious  to  test  our  horsemanship, 
led  the  way  toward  the  hacienda  at  a breakneck  gallop 
and  over  the  roughest  shortcuts  they  knew.  My  mount 
showed  nothing  save  a speed  which  made  me  long  to 
own  him,  and  the  utmost  indifference  to  the  road  he 
travelled.  So  at  a breakneck  gallop  we  cut  through 
the  wilderness  of  madronos  and  oaks,  the  pachotes, 
cedars  and  mahogany  trees,  sliding  down  the  steep 
banks  of  little  streams  where  black  herons  and  snowy 
cranes  flapped  up  awkwardly  as  the  horses  splashed 


THE  MODERN  LABOUR  NOTE 


79 


through  the  shallows,  and  great  alligators  slid  sluggishly 
from  the  logs  they  resembled  and  swam  away  from  the 
disturbance. 

As  we  sat  on  the  verandah  after  the  noon-meal, 
looking  across  the  flat  grassland  toward  Bebedero,  Don 
Aurelio  spoke  of  the  lack  of  intelligent  labour  to  carry 
out  his  plans  for  modernizing  Mojica.  As  he  talked  I 
watched  a horseman  galloping  along  the  track  from  the 
little  town  by  the  river. 

“ But  if  that’s  the  trying  feature  of  ranching  in  the 
tropics,”  said  Don  Aurelio,  “ we  have  compensations, 
too.  The  strikes  and  labour  agitations  that  gum  the 
wheels  of  progress  in  the  States  aren’t  known  down  here. 
We’re  thankful  for  that  much.” 

The  rider  I had  been  watching  galloped  through  the 
gate  at  this  moment  and  pulled  his  little  mount  to  a 
sliding  halt  to  announce  to  Don  Aurelio  that  the  lighters 
in  which  the  cattle  of  Mojica  are  transported  down  the 
Rio  Bebedero  to  the  Gulf  of  Nicoya  and  Puntarenas 
would  not  be  at  Bebedero  on  the  morrow. 

“ But  why  ? ” snapped  the  manager,  and  the  rider 
shrugged. 

“ The  lightermen  are  on  strike  for  higher  wages,”  he 
said. 

So  it  seems  that  the  modern  note  is  coming,  if  slowly, 
to  the  tropics.  Don  Aurelio  may  yet  see  Mojica  a replica 
of  the  properties  of  the  States,  with  labour  unions  and 
walking  delegates  and  minimum  wage  and  accident 
compensation. 

We  bade  these  hospitable  folk  good-bye  in  early 
afternoon  and  turned  the  animals’  heads  to  the  north, 
toward  Bagacas.  There  was  a fair  dirt  trail  along  the 
linea  telegrdfico,  the  single  strand  of  telegraph  wire, 
strung  from  pole  to  pole  on  the  plains,  from  tree  to  tree 


80 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


in  the  jungles,  that  links  together  in  the  Morse  code 
the  countries  from  Mexico  to  the  “ Ditch  ” at  Panama. 
We  jogged  past  the  Hacienda  San  Jeronimo,  with  its 
herds  of  fat  cattle  and  horses  branded  with  the  fleur-de-lis, 
and  rode  on  stirrup-to-stirrup  under  the  unrivalled  blue 
of  a cloudless  sky,  with  a faint,  cool  breeze  that  tempered 
the  sun’s'  rays. 

It  was  sunset  when  we  galloped  into  the  main  street 
of  Bagacas  and  inquired  our  way  to  the  hotel  of  Dona 
Rosa  Munoz.  Dona  Rosa,  a silvery-haired  old  lady, 
threw  up  her  hands  in  pious  horror  for  that  two  such 
hungry-looking  machos  should  descend  upon  her  at  the 
tarde  hour  of  six  and  demand  hospitality.  But  we  had 
learned  the  trick.  After  announcing  our  need  of  food 
and  lodging  we  unsaddled  while  the  landlady  talked, 
and  piled  our  outfits  inside  the  house.  Then  we 

demanded  a muchacho  to  lead  our  animals  to  the  pasture. 

Dona  Rosa  shook  her  head  resignedly,  then  placed 
cupped  hands  to  her  lips  and  sent  a shrill  yell  across 
the  street,  at  which  a “ boy  ” of  some  sixty-odd  years 
appeared  to  take  away  the  beasties.  Norm  went 
with  him,  to  hobble  Solomon,  while  I ensconced 
myself  in  the  parlour  to  write  my  notes.  The  black- 
bound  book  aroused  the  curiosity  of  the  elderly  female 
who  acted  as  cook  for  the  establishment,  and  she  stood 
at  my  elbow  as  I worked,  putting  many  questions  con- 
cerning our  past,  present  and  probable  future. 

When  I explained  that  my  tale  was  of  the  glories  of 
Central  America  she  asked  if  mention  would  be  made  of 
the  hotel — and  its  cook.  I never  quarrel  with  the 
cocinera,  so  I assured  her  that  due  note  would  be  made 
of  the  inn  and  the  mistress  of  the  kitchen,  and  showed 
her  its  name  written  plainly  in  my  chronicle.  So  we 
parted  with  mutual  expressions  of  esteem. 


LEAVING  BAGACAS 


81 


Comida  came  to  us  by  the  hands  of  a sixteen-year- old 
daughter  of  Dona  Rosa,  whose  intelligent  face  and  quaint 
English  bore  out  the  evidence  of  the  Costa  Rican  Normal 
School  pennant  hanging  in  the  parlour  below  the  picture 
of  the  Virgin. 

We  were  ready  to  depart  at  six  the  following  morning, 
for  he  who  would  travel  in  comfort  in  the  tropics  must 
do  most  of  his  journeying  in  the  early  morning  or  late 
evening  hours.  The  mozo  brought  in  the  animals  from 
the  potrero  and  fed  them  maize ; then  we  examined  their 
backs — an  anxious  procedure  when  one  must  ride  the 
same  beast  daily — and  found  that  Solomon  of  the  satur- 
nine visage  was  suffering  from  saddle-galls.  We  treated 
the  galls  with  vaseline  and  covered  them  with  clean, 
white  cloth,  then  saddled  and  rode  out  through  the  quiet 
single  street  of  the  little  village. 

Both  Edna  and  Solomon  were  possessed  of  contrary 
streaks  that  bright  Sabbath  morning.  Once  upon  the 
open  road  they  wanted  to  return  to  Bagacas,  to  stand 
when  we  would  have  had  them  go  forward,  and  to  set 
out  at  a breakneck  gallop  when  we  pulled  them  to  a halt 
to  roll  cigarettes.  It  was  a dry,  desolate  region,  of 
white,  chalky  earth  covered  with  parched  thorn  bushes, 
and  the  blazing  sun  intensified  the  dreariness  of  the 
landscape. 

At  a wattled  hut  in  a tiny  clearing  at  the  roadside  we 
halted  and  asked  for  water.  A shy,  barefooted  little 
maid  brought  out  a huge  gourd  containing  enough  water 
for  both  of  us  and — almost — for  the  animals  as  well. 

In  Central  America  one  may  pay  for  food  when  eaten, 
if  one  is  plainly  richer  than  the  host,  but  water  is  only 
given.  When  the  distance  these  folk  carry  their  water  is 
considered — I have  seen  girls  striding  along  under  their 
huge  water- jars  when  they  had  fully  a league  to  go  from 
6 


82 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


stream  to  house — water  becomes  a precious  thing  and 
its  giving  a real  charity. 

So  I looked  about  for  some  way  to  reward  the  shy- 
smiling  little  nina  without  giving  insult,  and  chanced  to 
see  a pile  of  dulce — cakes  of  crude,  brown  sugar — on  the 
table  inside  the  hut.  A woman  informed  me  that  they 
were  worth  five  centavos  each,  so  I took  two  and  handed 
the  little  girl  two  billetes  of  ten  centavos  each,  then  we 
rode  on  hurriedly.  Until  we  were  clean  out  of  hearing 
the  honest  people  of  the  place  kept  shouting  after  us  to 
come  back  for  our  change. 

We  had  been  instructed  to  follow  the  telegraph-wire. 
Well  and  good  ! We  tried  to  follow  it ; wanted  nothing 
more  than  the  chance.  But  the  wire  and  the  trail  were 
like  two  short-tempered  companions ; for  a time  they 
marched  along  together  amicably  enough,  then  some 
point  of  disagreement  (apparently)  would  arise  and  lina 
swung  one  way  and  camino  another.  At  first  we  stuck 
by  the  wire,  thinking  that  anything  was  better  than  the 
intolerable  glare  of  the  sun  on  white  dust,  but  after  a 
few  excursions  over  narrow  line-riders’  paths  through 
withered,  spiky  scrub-jungle,  we  revised  our  opinion 
and  hurried  back  to  the  road. 

In  the  shallow  waters  of  the  Rio  Liberia  we  found 
welcome  coolness.  It  was  difficult,  indeed,  to  drive  the 
animals  out  of  the  water  and  into  the  streets  of  the  town 
above. 

Liberia,  being  the  capital  of  the  province,  was  a thriv- 
ing place,  the  market- town  for  the  region  for  miles  round 
about.  But  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a hundred,  one 
Central  American  'pueblo  differs  from  any  other  only  in 
point  of  size.  The  streets  of  Liberia  were  as  thick  with 
white  dust  as  those  of  Texas  cow-towns  were  a dozen 
years  ago.  There  were  the  same  squares  of  whitewashed 


THE  HOTEL  AT  LIBERIA 


83 


adobe  buildings  along  the  busy  streets  ; the  same  huddle 
of  pole- walled,  thatched  huts  in  the  poorer  sections  ; the 
same  crudely  lettered  signs  in  blue  or  red  paint  upon 
white  house-fronts,  announcing  the  location  of  grocery 
store,  market,  drygoods  merchant  or  barber.  So  much 
we  saw  as  we  rode  up  and  down  looking  for  a place  to 
eat  a belated  breakfast. 

The  word  “ hotel/’  although  spelled  exactly  and  pro- 
nounced almost  identically  (“  o-tal  ”)  the  same  in  Span- 
ish as  in  English,  seldom  fails  to  puzzle  the  Central 
American.  Unless  he  chances  to  be  standing  before  some 
well-known  inn,  the  name  of  which  includes  the  word,  he 
will  almost  invariably  repeat  the  question  with  a puzzled 
expression  and  at  last  murmur  “ no  sabe  ” in  surly  tones, 
as  if  suspicious  that  he  is  somehow  being  made  the  butt 
of  a subtle  jape. 

We  rode  up  and  down  the  dusty  streets  under  a sun 
that  seemed  to  hang  like  a molten  brass  disk  in  the  piti- 
less blue  bowl  overhead,  and  if  Liberia  has  ten  thousand 
inhabitants,  as  Messrs.  Rand,  McNally  claim,  then  I 
feel  that  I may  safely  say  that  I addressed  half  the 
population  before  a precocious  youngster  nodded  under- 
standing of  my  question  and  trotted  before  us  to  the 
hotel  of  one  Rodriguez. 

The  fire  had  gone  out  in  the  beehive-shaped  clay  oven 
which  serves  these  people  as  stove  ; the  fat  landlady 
was  half  asleep  and  very  comfortable  in  her  hammock. 
We  could  get  nothing  to  eat  until  the  evening  meal,  she 
told  us,  and  fell  straightway  asleep  once  more.  But 
there  chanced  to  be  an  American  timber-buyer  in  the 
place,  and  he  guided  us  to  a little  bakery  near  the  hotel 
where  we  got  a huge  bagful  of  caraway  cookies  for  ten 
centavos. 

We  lounged  away  the  afternoon  beneath  the  verandah 


84 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


roof,  watching  the  townspeople  pass  listlessly  through 
the  streets.  Our  talk  drifted  to  New  Orleans,  which 
seemed  as  far  away  as  China,  and  we  wondered  what 
an  iced  drink  would  be  like,  if  we  were  sitting  in  a certain 
cool  spot  we  all  knew  well,  on  upper  Canal  Street. 

Canvas  cots  aren’t  conducive  to  deep  slumber,  so  we 
were  dressed  by  daylight  on  Monday  morning.  After 
coffee  in  the  patio  we  went  in  a body,  Norm,  Mr.  Wood 
and  I,  to  the  local  post  office,  and  here  assisted  the  force 
of  clerks  to  compute  the  postage  necessary  to  send  our 
bundles  of  notes  and  films  back  to  San  Francisco.  This 
occupied  a full  hour,  for  many  were  the  instructions 
which  must  be  first  found,  then  read  ; and  when  all  was 
over,  there  remained  nothing  to  do  but  return  to  the 
hotel  and  wait  for  breakfast. 

It  was  census-making  time  in  the  Province  of  Liberia. 
The  agents  based  on  the  town  and  rode  daily  into  the 
country,  and  one  was  a fellow-guest  at  Rodriguez’s. 
This  amiable  young  man  admired  Solomon’s  bulging 
muscles,  and  as  we  prepared  to  saddle  the  animals  in  the 
door-yard  offered  to  trade  his  light-bay  Guanacaste 
horse  for  the  macho.  Knowing  that  Solomon’s  saddle- 
galls  were  rapidly  becoming  worse  under  Norm’s  weight, 
we  had  difficulty  in  concealing  the  eagerness  with  which 
we  regarded  the  proposal.  But  we  managed  to  assume 
a critical  expression  apiece  as  we  walked  round  the  caballo 
and  found  fault  with  his  table-manners  and  accused  him 
of  every  malignant  vice  that  came  to  our  minds.  At  last 
we  consented  to  exchange  the  macho  for  the  horse  and 
fifty  colones,  then  permitted  the  young  man  to  argue  us 
into  accepting  twenty  colones. 

Forest-  and  prairie -fires  were  everywhere,  it  seemed, 
as  we  rode  north  from  Liberia.  The  horses  moved 
nervously  over  the  great  areas  of  blackened  grass  and 


FLAT  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 


85 


smouldering  embers  where  the  wind  whipped  clouds  of 
pungent  ash  and  smoke  into  our  faces.  During  the 
afternoon  we  forded  several  broad,  swift  streams,  and  in 
crossing  one  of  these  the  unfortunate  Edna  slipped  and 
pinned  me  in  water  over  my  head  as  I lay  prostrate  be- 
neath her.  Fortunately  my  sheath-knife  was  near  my 
hand  and  a prick  with  the  point  in  her  shoulder  woke 
her  to  activity  in  time  to  let  me  slip  out  from  under  her 
before  I drowned. 

The  flat  country-side  was  alive  with  bird-life  retreating 
before  the  flames.  Wild  turkeys  roosted  in  the  trees 
above  the  trails  ; the  great,  grey  Costa  Rican  jay  scolded 
us  from  the  bushes  at  the  roadside  ; a red-headed  wood- 
pecker drummed  upon  a dead  stub  in  a clearing  ; while  in 
the  waters  of  the  streams  snowy  herons  and  great  black 
cranes  stood  fishing,  and  rose  with  reproachful  croakings 
as  we  splashed  through  their  preserves.  From  his  perch 
above  a quiet  pool  a tiny  kingfisher  watched  with  beady, 
bright  eyes  for  minnows.  Beside  the  trail,  just  beyond 
a stream,  we  came  upon  fully  a hundred  zopilotes  and 
turkey-buzzards,  fighting  off  a baker’s  dozen  of  the  white- 
headed  true  buzzards  from  the  carcass  of  a steer. 

From  Liberia  to  Puerto  Rillos — wherever  that  may  be ! 
— is  called  a four-hour  ride.  We|  had  been  in  the  saddle 
since  one,  and  when  seven  o’clock  found  us  still  jogging 
through  the  twilight  over  an  apparently  uninhabited 
land — rolling  prairie  with  scrubby  thorn-bushes  in  the 
ravines  and  along  the  beds  of  the  streams — we  made 
uncomplimentary  comment  regarding  the  length  of 
Costa  Rican  hours. 

Darkness  came  and  still  we  rode  on,  the  horses  stumb- 
ling in  the  ox-cart  ruts,  following  the  gleam  of  the  wheel- 
marks  in  the  white  soil.  Light  gleamed  ahead  through  an 
opening  in  the  scrub,  but  when  we  had  spurred  the  weary 


86  COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 

animals  into  a jolting  trot  it  was  only  another  prairie- 
fire,  an  immense  wall  of  flame  extending  for  miles  across 
the  plain. 

We  skirted  the  edge  of  the  fire  and  picked  up  the  trail 
on  the  other  side — somehow.  It  now  became  necessary 
for  one  of  us  to  dismount  every  hundred  yards  or  so  and 
grope  through  the  darkness  until  a pole  was  located,  then 
toss  a clod  upward  and  listen  for  the  clang  of  it  upon 
the  telegraph-wire,  to  assure  ourselves  that  we  weren’t 
wandering  astray  on  one  of  the  countless  cattle-trails 
criss-crossing  the  plain  in  this  region.  We  rode  bent 
over  the  saddle- horn,  straining  our  eyes  to  make  out 
the  slightly  lighter  coloration  that  marked  the  passage 
of  the  ox-cart  wheels.  At  this  game  our  eyes  seemed 
better  than  those  of  the  horses. 

Far  behind  us  was  the  red  glow  of  the  prairie-fire. 
The  horses  scrambled  on  and  came  at  last  into  an  open 
space,  where  the  white,  chalky  earth  was  faintly  marked 
with  a hundred  paths.  To  the  left  we  could  see,  dimly, 
a dark  line  as  of  a wall  of  trees.  The  linen  had  dis- 
appeared, and  since  it  is  as  often  strung  from  living  trees 
as  from  cut  poles,  in  that  dark  mass  I thought  was  the 
logical  place  to  look  for  it.  Norm  disagreed  with  me,  so 
I turned  Edna’s  head  to  the  left  and  she  stumbled  over 
the  pitted,  scarred  earth,  placing  her  feet  reluctantly 
before  her  in  the  pitchy  darkness. 

The  trees  proved  to  be  several  hundred  yards  distant, 
and  when  I reached  them  and  drew  the  little  mare  to  a 
halt  there  was  no  sign  of  the  telegraph-wire.  I yelled 
to  Norm,  whom  I had  left  in  the  shelter  of  a bush 
rolling  a cigarette,  but  got  no  answer. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  the  wire  could  have 
vanished  entirely,  so  I forced  Edna  into  the  jungle, 
which  seemed  to  stretch  for  some  distance,  though  the 


WE  BIVOUAC  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 


87 


darkness  prevented  any  definite  estimate  of  its  width. 
As  I ducked  to  evade  a creeper  that  slapped  my  face 
there  came  suddenly  the  rasp  of  vicious  snarling  from 
my  left.  Instinctively  I whirled,  still  hunched,  as 
instinctively  jerked  my  gun,  to  look  down  upon  two 
greenish,  incandescent  globes  close  to  the  earth. 

Simultaneously  with  my  shot  Edna  went  into  the  air 
in  a twisting  buck  surpassing  anything  she  had  ever 
done  in  this  line,  and  I went  hjeadfirst  to  the  ground. 
I sat  up,  a trifle  dazed,  although  the  thick  felt  of  my 
Stetson  had  somewhat  broken  the  force  of  my  landing 
and  a naturally  thick  skull  had  once  more  been  my 
friend.  The  animal  had  disappeared,  but  close  beside 
me  was  the  warm  carcass  of  a calf  and  I could  hear 
Edna  crashing  through  the  bushes  on  her  way  elsewhere. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  Norm,  who  had  heard 
my  shot,  could  locate  me.  I had  started  for  the  open 
where  I had  left  him,  while  he  had  been  on  an  explora- 
tion of  his  own.  In  the  darkness  one  spot  looked 
exactly  like  the  next,  so  I sat  down  and  smoked,  giving 
an  occasional  yell  to  guide  him  if  he  heard. 

For  sheer  aloneness  that  half-hour  will  always  be 
remarkable  in  my  memory,  I am  sure.  It  was  like 
sitting  on  a pole- top,  surrounded  only  by  empty  dark- 
ness, somewhere  between  the  worlds ; the  only  man. 

We  found  a little  nook  in  the  lee  of  low  bushes,  and 
there  Norm  unsaddled  his  caballo.  Food  was  in  his 
alforjas — little,  hard  rolls  made  of  wheat-flour,  black 
bean-paste,  tortillas,  fried  plantains — and  we  had 
drunk  deeply  at  a stream  a little  while  before.  So  we 
were  comfortable  enough  as  we  spread  the  saddle- 
blanket  and  Norm’s  bed-blanket  upon  the  short,  soft 
grass.  We  ate,  and  prepared  to  spend  the  night. 

An  hour  passed,  perhaps,  while  we  smoked  and  laid 


88 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


plans  for  Edna’s  recapture  in  the  morning.  While 
Norm  was  talking  there  came  to  me  realization  that  I 
had  been  hearing  for  some  time  a stealthy  rustling  in 
the  bushes  a little  way  off,  but  hadn’t  consciously 
noted  the  sound.  I nudged  Norm  and  we  pinched  out 
the  coals  of  our  cigarettes  and  lay,  listening,  with  six- 
shooters  drawn. 

That  region  is  constantly  traversed  by  roving  bands 
of  Nicaraguenses  coming  south  into  Costa  Rica  ; thieves 
almost  without  exception,  murderers  sometimes,  if  the 
opportunity  comes  to  land  a machete-stroke  from 
behind  on  a victim  who  seems  worth  robbing.  Our 
outfits  would  have  brought  a sum  sufficient  to  make 
independent  for  months  the  hombre  malo  who  could 
take  them  from  us,  so  we  never  took  a chance  of  being 
surprised. 

The  rustling  in  the  undergrowth  grew  louder  and 
slowly  we  raised  gun-muzzles  to  cover  the  spot  from 
which  it  sounded.  Then  a familiar  snort — of  satis- 
faction, I do  believe — came  from  almost  at  our  elbows, 
and  Edna  sauntered  out  of  the  bushes  and  over  to 
where  Norm’s  horse  was  staked.  Came  a burst  of 
squeals — triumphant  from  Edna  ; indignant  and  dis- 
tressed from  the  other  cayuse — and  we  grinned.  It  was 
merely  the  announcement  of  the  mare,  by  means  of 
heels  tattooing  upon  her  trailmate’s  ribs,  that  she  was 
back  and  once  more  BOSS — spelled  just  like  that — of 
the  pair. 

How  she  found  us  was  more  than  we  could  explain  ; 
she  nuzzled  my  shoulder  when  I unsaddled  her  and 
seemed  pleased  to  be  with  us  again.  During  the  time 
we  owned  each  other  she  did  more  canny  things  than 
the  trailing  of  two  men  and  a horse  over  a mile  or  so 
of  prairie. 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  OPEN 


89 


We  were  up  with  the  dawn,  a sudden  flushing  of  the 
black  sky  over  the  low  trees  that  lasted  but  a moment, 
then  deepened  to  the  hue  of  flame  as  the  sun’s  red 
edge  rose  over  the  horizon  like  a theatre-curtain  raised 
hastily.  When  the  remnant  of  our  food  had  been 
finished  we  saddled  the  horses  and  rode  in  search  of  the 
linea.  Daylight  showed  rolling  prairies,  covered  with 
short,  dry  grass.  A mile  or  so  beyond  our  camp  the 
wire  came  strolling  out  of  the  trees,  so  to  say,  with 
hands  in  pockets. 

With  the  rising  of  the  sun  we  were  forced  to  slacken 
speed  and  so  pulled  in  the  animals  to  the  mile-eating 
running-walk.  Noon  came,  and  we  had  seen  not  a 
house,  nor  a wayfarer.  We  took  shelter  in  the  shade 
of  a clump  of  roble  de  sabana  until  the  midday  heat  was 
broken,  then  jogged  on  through  the  afternoon,  over 
unfenced  plain  that  stretched  away  to  the  northward 
as  far  as  eye  could  reach. 

In  this  day  of  crowded  lands,  of  cities  and  towns 
rubbing  elbows  wherever  one  travels,  there  is  a wonder- 
ful satisfaction  bom  of  wandering  through  open  spaces 
that  stretch  for  miles  without  a touch  of  human  hands 
upon  them.  Here  in  Costa  Rica  we  two  rolling  stones 
found  it,  and  under  the  spell  of  the  open  we  forgot 
petty  annoyances,  even  the  accumulating  hunger  had 
no  power  to  break  our  peace.  We  smoked  and  breathed 
deep  and  slouched  comfortably  in  the  saddle,  happy 
enough  because  we  were  where  we  were,  and  not  caring 
greatly  if  we  ever  arrived  anywhere,  or  merely  rode  on. 

In  late  evening  the  plains  began  to  be  cut  by  deep 
gullies,  into  which  the  trail  dipped  abruptly ; clumps 
of  low  trees  grew  close  together.  Congos  roared  in  the 
thickets,  brown  and  parti-coloured  monkeys  swung 
chattering  from  the  trees,  while  the  great  gaudy- 


90 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


feathered  macaws  merely  cocked  their  heads  to  watch 
us,  all  unafraid  of  man. 

Darkness  fell  and  still  we  jogged  on,  hardly  expecting 
to  find  a hacienda  that  night,  for  in  this  region  of  great 
cattle-ranches,  there  are  very  few  villages  and  it  is 
often  as  much  as  two  days’  ride  from  ranch-house  to 
ranch-house.  But  at  ten  o’clock,  as  we  were  thinking 
of  making  camp,  a cluster  of  lights  twinkled  in  the 
darkness  far  ahead.  We  rowelled  the  weary  beasts 
into  a stiff  trot  and  so  came  to  a group  of  buildings  set 
upon  a hill-side. 

Through  the  quiet  air  came  the  clicking  of  a telegraph 
sounder,  and  we  followed  the  sound  to  an  open  door 
from  which  the  light  streamed  out.  The  operator  told 
us  curtly  that  we  were  upon  the  Hacienda  Santa  Rosa, 
a cattle-ranch  owned  by  one  Dr.  O’Barrios.  We  asked 
for  hospitality,  and  with  no  decrease  of  surliness  the 
operator  took  down  an  oil-lantern  and  led  us  to  a row 
of  old  horse- stalls  that  served  as  sleeping- quarters  for 
several  peones.  One  of  the  stalls  he  assigned  us  as 
bedroom. 

With  brands  picked  from  a fire  burning  in  the  yard, 
we  examined  the  place.  It  was  dirt-floored  and  rather 
worse  than  any  stable  I have  ever  seen  in  the  States. 
The  only  alteration  made  in  the  interior  to  fit  it  for  a 
dormitorio  had  been  the  addition  of  a mahogany  plank 
some  three  feet  wide  by  twelve  long  which  ran  along 
the  rear  wall.  This  board,  the  operator  informed  us, 
was  the  bed.  We  asked  for  food,  and  he  growled, 
“ Tengo  nada,”  the  equivalent  of  “ Got  nothing.”  “ No 
women  here  to  cook,”  he  condescended  to  explain 
further — an  obvious  lie,  for  several  women  had  peeped 
out  of  a doorway  at  us  as  we  passed. 

From  the  ring  of  peones  squatted  about  the  fire  one  rose 


CHILL  WELCOME  AT  SANTA  ROSA  91 


silently,  an  ancient  hombre,  bare  of  bead  and  feet,  clad 
only  in  a suit  of  ragged  denim  modelled  on  pyjama- lines. 
Without  a word  he  drew  from  a cranny  in  his  stall  a 
tin  pan  of  black  beans,  a sooty  can  containing  a pint 
or  so  of  cold  coffee ; last  he  brought  out  a long,  rusty 
wire,  upon  which  were  skewered  chunks  of  dried  meat. 
Two  pieces  of  the  meat  he  pulled  from  the  wire,  then 
replaced  it  carefully,  for  among  the  poorer  classes  of 
Costa  Rica  and  Nicaragua  meat  is  a luxury. 

So  we  ate  our  beans — the  meat  was  no  more  than  a 
bite  apiece — from  the  pan,  using  tortillas  rolled  into 
cylinders  for  spoons,  and  completed  the  meal  by  eating 
the  spoons. 

The  night  was  one  of  torture,  for  the  bed-plank  was 
acrawl  with  garrapatas  and  a tiny  red  insect,  the  name 
of  which  I don't  know,  but  with  whose  fangs  I grew 
woefully  familiar.  We  scratched  and  tossed  and  prayed 
for  daylight,  and  it  came  on  lagging  feet. 

We  could  get  nothing  to  eat  next  morning,  and,  to 
add  a feeling  of  insult  to  that  of  injury  we  already 
possessed,  the  first  thing  our  eyes  rested  upon  was  the 
big  house  of  the  ranch-owner,  set  on  a crest  above 
the  other  buildings.  Smoke  curled  lazily  up  from  the 
chimneys,  evidence  of  food  cooking,  but  for  us  there 
was  “ nada.”  It  was  a sharp  change  from  the  hospi- 
tality which  had  greeted  us  thus  far  in  Costa  Rica,  so 
perhaps  the  incident  bulked  larger  in  our  minds  than 
it  merited,  but  we  hoped  fervently  that  the  time  would 
come  when  we  might  turn  the  tables  on  the  tribe 
O’Barrios.  We  tossed  a colon  to  the  kindly  peon  who 
had  fed  us  the  night  before,  and  rode  north  toward  La 
Cruz  and  the  / router a. 

We  jogged  on  at  that  mile-eating  gait,  the  running- 
walk,  pausing  in  sheltered  coulees  for  cigarettes  and 


92 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


conversation,  for  the  high  wind  rendered  either  smoking 
or  talking  impossible  in  the  open.  In  the  patches  of 
woodland  the  monkeys  gathered  overhead  to  pelt  us 
with  round,  insipid  fruit  of  some  unknown  variety, 
and  from  the  depths  of  the  far  jungle  to  the  east  came 
the  booming  roars  of  the  congos,  their  bass  chorus 
setting  Edna  adance  with  fright. 

Occasionally,  from  behind  a hill,  the  Pacific  came  in 
view,  and  the  travellers  we  began  to  meet — vagabond 
Nicaraguenses,  for  the  most  part,  walking  with  all  their 
ragged  worldly  possessions  slung  in  small  bundles  from 
machete-ends  in  the  style  of  the  hoboes  of  our  comic 
supplements — told  us  that  we  must  ride  five  hours  to 
make  La  Cruz. 

One  wayfarer  was  of  a different  genus,  an  elderly 
Irishman  who  bore  all  the  earmarks  of  the  thirty-third 
degree  “ Triple  T,”  the  “ Typical,  Tropical  Tramp.” 
He  asked  about  drinking  water  on  the  road  ahead  and 
we  passed  on  to  him  all  the  information  we  could, 
including  “ the  office  ” on  the  Clan  O’Barrios.  He 
nodded  at  the  last. 

“ Oi’ve  heard  o’  Santa  Rosy,”  he  said.  “ ’Tis  the 
same  dope  the  boys  in  the  cable-office  in  San  Juan  del 
Sur  (Nicaragua)  was  handin’  me.  Oi’ll  be  givin’  that 
hacyendy  a woide  berth,  Oi’m  thinkin’.  Can  ye  spare 
a trail-brother  a peso  ? The  boys  at  San  Juan  donated 
a pair  o’  shoes,  but  divil  a cint  have  Oi  for  grub.” 

He  had  hiked  all  the  way  from  Guatemala  City  to 
where  we  found  him,  just  south  of  the  Nicaraguan 
frontier,  and  what  his  experiences  must  have  been, 
without  money,  trade  or  knowledge  of  the  language,  are 
more  than  I can  picture.  We  handed  over  all  our 
spare  Costa  Rican  currency  and  rode  on,  and  he, 
shouldering  his  bundle  once  more,  turned  his  face  to 


92] 


LA  CRUZ  93 

the  south  again,  toward  Bogota,  Colombia.  We  hope 
he  reached  it. 

La  Cruz  we  saw  full  two  hours  before  the  winding  trail 
permitted  us  to  enter  its  outskirts.  Despite  the  high 
wind  it  was  blazing  hot,  for  the  hard,  white  earth  fairly 
radiated  the  sun’s  rays.  We  jogged  through  the  thirty  - 
odd  huts  that  comprise  the  town,  and  at  the  store  of  a 
buxom,  amorous-eyed  Nicaraguan  woman  bargained  for 
breakfast  and  maize  for  the  horses. 

Our  hostess  slapped  her  broad,  bandaged-toed  feet 
coquettishly  about  the  dirt  floor  as  she  set  our  meal 
upon  the  table,  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  cast  at  the 
broad-shouldered  Norm  languishing  glances  from  be- 
neath drooped  lids,  while  I hid  my  working  face  behind 
the  notebook.  The  effect  of  her  coquetry  was  somewhat 
lessened  by  her  two  hundred  pounds  and  up. 

All  her  flirtatiousness  vanished  magically  when  we 
refused  to  consider  agua  con  dulce — water  sweetened  with 
brown  sugar — as  a breakfast  beverage,  and  demanded 
coffee.  Then  she  began  to  slam  the  tin  plates  about  in 
the  manner  of  a bad-tempered  child.  But  we  got  our 
coffee. 

In  Northern  Costa  Rica  and  throughout  Nicaragua  we 
found  the  fragrant  berry  in  the  same  status  as  the  Irish 
pigs — too  valuable  for  home-consumption.  On  the 
tables  of  the  poor  it  is  replaced  by  a drink  made  of  boiled, 
parched  corn  and  brown  sugar,  a not  unpalatable  bever- 
age called  'pinole.  Nearly  always,  however,  we  could  get 
coffee  if  we  insisted. 

When  we  had  eaten  we  holstered  our  weapons  under 
our  shirts  and  rode  up  to  the  customs-house.  La  Cruz, 
being  the  northernmost  town  of  Costa  Rica,  though  not 
on  the  frontier,  contains  the  customs  officials  of  both 
Costa  Rica  and  Nicaragua.  Here  our  passports  were 


94 


COSTA  RICAN  CATTLE-LAND 


inspected — upside  down — by  an  anaemic  official  and  re- 
turned to  us.  We  didn’t  offer  to  submit  our  belongings 
for  inspection,  and  the  guard  of  ragged  soldiers,  after 
hesitating  for  a time,  made  no  move  to  ransack  the 
alforjas. 

Warned  by  our  experience  at  Santa  Rosa,  we  rode 
back  to  the  store  of  the  Nicaraguan  woman  and  reduced 
our  stock  of  Costa  Rican  currency  to  less  than  three 
colones  by  the  outlay  of  seventy-five  centavos  for  a dozen 
rolls  made  of  mixed  corn-meal  and  wheat-flour. 

Turning  north  from  the  shop,  we  dived  immediately 
into  thick  jungle  in  pursuit  of  the  telegraph  wire,  which 
seemed  fated  to  be  our  constant  companion.  We  were 
thankful  to  be  gone  from  the  miserable  collection  of 
sapling-walled  huts  where  pigs,  chickens,  dogs  and 
garrapatas  bed  down  with  the  natives  of  mixed  Costa 
Rican-Nicaraguan  blood  in  a single  squalid  room.  The 
only  compensatory  quality  about  La  Cruz  was  that  we 
were  not  required  to  remain  there. 


CHAPTER  IV 


COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

Sleeping  with  a “Toboba” — Across  the  Border  at  Sapoa 
— Along  Lake  Nicaragua — -Rivas,  William  Walker’s  Capital 
— Road  to  Granada — Notes  on  Nicaraguan  Hospitality — 
Wearing  the  Guns  Outside — Granada  and  Good-bye  to  Edna 
— Nicaraguan  Railway  Voyage. 

THE  trail  was  one  of  the  worst,  if  not  the  worst, 
that  we  had  yet  encountered,  a mere  line-riders’ 
path  along  the  wire.  It  was  hot  with  a furnace- 
like  heat  in  the  depths  of  that  still,  parched  jungle. 
Take  the  temperature  of  a torrid  August  day  in  South- 
west Texas,  add  the  oppressive  silence  of  noontide  on  a 
summer’s  day  in  the  fields,  and  the  result  will  be  a fair 
imitation  of  our  surroundings  that  sultry  afternoon. 
Even  the  birds,  the  hardy  jays  which  usually  heralded 
our  intrusion  upon  the  jungle  thickets,  were  content 
to  sit  listlessly  in  the  thickest  tree-tops  they  could 
find. 

This  region  was  one  of  low  hills,  jungle-crested,  over 
which  the  trail  rose  and  dipped,  rose  and  dipped  again. 
In  the  low  places  the  earth  had  been  scored  and  pitted 
by  the  feet  of  oxen  in  the  rainy  season  and  was  now 
baked  stone-hard  by  the  blazing  sun.  There  were  holes 
two  feet  deep,  their  edges  not  two  inches  apart.  Here  the 
horses  showed  such  distress  that  it  would  have  been 
cruelty  to  ride  them.  We  dismounted  and  let  them  go 
on  ahead  while  we  stumbled  along  as  best  we  might  in 
their  wake. 


95 


96  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

The  only  water  on  this  trail  was  that  left  in  stagnant, 
malodorous  pools  in  the  beds  of  little  streams,  and  at 
this  slimy,  crawling  liquid  even  the  animals  sniffed  in 
disdain.  We  followed  such  a dry  watercourse  through 
the  afternoon  until  at  dusk  we  came  upon  a deserted 
cabin  on  a hill-side,  with  a plantation  of  plantains  behind 
it.  There  were  neither  ripe  flatanos  nor  drinkable  water, 
so  we  settled  ourselves  for  a comfortless  night,  with  a 
fortitude  which  would  have  been  hard  to  assume  earlier 
in  our  journey. 

In  a little  shack  adjoining  the  cabin  was  nearly  a 
ton  of  maize-ears,  rat-gnawed,  but  acceptable  to  the 
beasts.  They  fared  better  than  we  that  night,  for  we 
shelled  a couple  of  bushels  of  the  maize  for  them, 
while  our  own  supper  consisted  of  the  dry  rolls,  topped 
by  cigarettes. 

As  we  ate,  Norm  rested  his  six-shooter  casually  upon 
my  knees  and,  before  I realized  his  intention,  snapped 
a six-inch  centipede  from  a pole  a few  inches  from  my 
left  hand.  The  insect  fell  in  two  quivering  sections 
upon  the  dirt  floor  as  I rose  with  what  dignity  I could 
muster.  Nonchalance  is  a most  admirable  quality,  but 
in  my  opinion  it  has  its  well-defined  limits ; this  I told 
Norm  as  I tendered  him  my  share  of  the  ruined  hut.  I 
felt  that  the  next  time  a mosquito  rested  for  an  instant 
upon  my  ear  I might  expect  a casual  bullet  clipping 
the  insect  from  its  perch.  For  the  sake  of  the  nerves 
of  those  who  might  witness  such  an  exhibition  I thought 
it  better  to  nip  Norm’s  habit  in  the  bud. 

With  our  saddles  for  pillows  and  folded  blankets 
covering  us  from  necks  to  boot-tops,  we  stretched  out 
on  a smooth  piece  of  ground  between  cabin  and  corn- 
crib  and  fell  asleep,  waking  once,  at  midnight,  to  pry 
Edna  loose  from  Twopercent,  Norm’s  cayuse,  who  was 


TOWARDS  THE  BORDER  97 

fighting  a losing  battle  of  heels  against  the  mare’s  vicious 
onslaught. 

When  I opened  my  eyes  at  dawn  a heavy  pall  of 
nimbus-cloud  covered  the  sky  and  scattering  raindrops 
were  falling  upon  my  face.  Norm  sat  up  at  the  same 
moment  and  stared  about  him  sleepily.  I started  to  rise, 
but  he  shoved  me  down  again  quickly  while  he  wriggled 
from  his  blanket  and  with  a long  stick  ejected  a highly 
insulted,  two-foot-long  toboba  from  its  nest  between  my 
booted  feet,  and  hastened  its  departure  with  a few  left- 
handed  shots  from  his  gun.  My  habit  of  passing  the 
night  without  moving — coupled  with  Norm’s  quick 
action — had  stood  me  in  good  stead.  The  reptile  had 
evidently  crawled  into  bed  with  me  some  time  after  mid- 
night, and  had  I moved  ...  I remembered  the  words 
of  the  native  clerk  at  Aguacate  and  agreed  that  “ it 
is  not  good  to  jest  with  Senor  Toboba.” 

We  saddled  in  haste  and  rode  off  through  the  drizzling 
rain,  with  the  telegraph  wire  pointing  the  way  to  the 
Nicaraguan  border.  The  builders  of  the  line  had  chosen 
to  throw  the  wire  along  the  open  space  above  a rocky 
stream  which  zigzagged  hither  and  yon  on  its  leisurely 
way  to  Lake  Nicaragua.  The  horses  stumbled  for  miles 
over  water-logged  roots  and  glassy  rocks,  made  one  steep 
ascent  and  clambered  down  the  far  side  of  another. 

The  river  widened  as  we  tended  toward  the  frontier 
and  we  stopped  to  splash  awhile  in  a shallow  pool.  The 
way  continued  nightmarish,  being  nothing  more  than 
the  bed  of  the  stream,  or  an  eight-inch  shelf  along  the 
mud  bank.  It  seemed  typical  of  Latin  shiftlessness 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  region  should  stumble  over 
such  a boulder-strewn  path  when  a few  hours’  work 
with  machete  would  have  provided  an  almost  level  path 
along  the  high  bank  of  the  stream. 

7 


98  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

In  the  houses  we  came  to  in  mid-morning  it  was  inter- 
esting to  observe  that  the  racial  characteristics  of  the 
people  were  changing.  The  fair,  blue-  or  grey-eyed 
Costaricenses — products  of  admixture  of  foreign  blood 
with  the  native  stock — we  had  encountered  in  the  coffee- 
country  were  giving  way  to  the  swarthy,  hook-nosed 
Indian  type  more  usually  met  with  in  Nicaragua. 

Shortly  before  noon,  as  we  looked  northward  through 
a rift  in  the  tree-clad  hills,  we  caught  our  first  glimpse 
of  the  Gran  Lago — the  “ Grand  Lake  ” — as  Lake 
Nicaragua  is  known  to  the  Central  American. 

The  region  we  were  entering  was  straightway  clothed 
with  the  mist  of  Romance,  because  of  its  eventful 
history.  In  this  vicinity,  perhaps  along  the  very  route 
we  travelled, had  marched  and  countermarched  the  docile 
little  soldados  of  Costa  Rica  in  1856  and  ’57,  to  attack 
the  blue-shirted  “ Falange  ” of  General  William  Walker, 
the  American  adventurer  and  knight-errant  who  stands 
without  a peer  in  the  annals  of  Lost  Causes.  The 
hacienda  of  Santa  Rosa,  where  we  had  been  given  such 
scant  hospitality,  may  well  have  been  the  “ country- 
house  of  Santa  Rosa,”  mentioned  in  Walker’s  chronicle, 
where  Walker’s  lieutenant,  Schlessinger,  was  defeated 
by  the  Costa  Rican  levies. 

With  that  one  glimpse  of  glinting  water  to  the  north- 
east, the  dripping  green  wilderness  took  on  another 
aspect.  Forgotten  our  weariness ; of  no  account  the 
temper-straining  difficulties  of  the  nightmarish  trail.  As 
the  horses  scrambled  and  stumbled  over  the  deeply  pitted 
track  I peopled  the  land  with  ghosts  ; brown,  barefooted 
little  Costaricenses,  trailing  their  long  smoothbores, 
rather  closely  watched  by  their  officers  lest  they  melt 
into  the  convenient  jungle-depths  and  desert  an  unpopu- 
lar cause  ; blue-shirted,  high-booted  Americans,  with 


A PLENTIFUL  BREAKFAST 


99 


an  occasional  Briton  among  the  ranks,  with  fierce, 
tangled  beards  and  fiercer  blue  eyes,  their  belts  heavy 
with  cartridge-boxes  and  holding  up  the  long-barrelled, 
deadly  Colts.  . . . 

At  midday  we  rode  up  to  a house  nestling  in  the  green 
hollow  between  two  low  hills.  Here,  with  an  inquisitive, 
friendly  macaw  clambering  over  our  shoulders  and 
muttering  in  our  ears,  we  got  breakfast,  while  the  rain- 
drops drummed  on  the  tin  verandah  roof  and  a troop  of 
wide-eyed  children  watched  us  apprehensively  from  the 
cookhouse  door. 

Food  was  plentiful  and  cheerfully  supplied  the 
wanderer  : fried  eggs  topping  boiled  rice  which  had 
been  sharply  seasoned  with  red  pepper ; black  beans 
mashed  to  a paste  and  baked  in  little  cakes ; new- 
made  cottage  cheese  to  spread  upon  smoking,  foot-wide 
tortillas.  Then  the  woman  of  the  house  came  from  the 
kitchen  bearing  slender,  carved  gourds,  each  set  in  a 
wooden  stand,  filled  with  pinole,  the  chocolate-flavoured 
beverage  made  from  the  liquor  of  boiled,  parched  corn, 
sweetened  with  dulce  and  whipped  to  a brown  foam  by 
whirling  paddle-sticks  as  the  Mexicans  made  chocolate 
before  Cortez’s  time. 

We  ate  until  we  could  hold  no  more,  then  paid  the 
smiling  cook  a colon  and  staggered  out  to  the  horses, 
beating  the  garrapatas  each  from  the  other’s  trousers  as 
we  went. 

It  is  said  to  be  impossible  for  a normal  man  to  swear 
continuously  through  an  entire  afternoon,  but  we  did 
our  humble  best  by  the  authorities  who  are  presumed 
to  supervise  the  highways  of  Costa  Rica. 

The  road  became  El  Camino  Real  in  early  afternoon, 
and  we  can  only  state  that,  if  that  trail  is  a royal  high- 
way, then  monarchs  are  easily  satisfied  when  on  the 


100  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

march.  Its  surveyed  centre — if  it  had  such  a thing — 
was  flanked  by  the  telegraph  wire  ; but  a dozen  wriggling 
trails  penetrated  the  jungle  on  either  side,  marks  of  the 
scorn  of  travellers  who  had  preceded  us  for  the  “ Royal 
Highway.”  The  road  itself  was  for  the  most  part  only 
a deep  morass. 

Time  after  time  we  slipped  from  the  saddle  to  stand 
upon  a tiny  hummock  and  haul  out  the  straining  beasts 
by  the  bridle-reins  from  some  bog  into  which  they  had 
sunk  belly-deep.  All  afternoon  we  struggled  alter- 
nately through  the  mud  in  the  open  spaces  and  over 
jungle- trails  where  the  thorns  slashed  legs  and  faces  or 
kept  us  flattened  along  the  horses’  necks,  until  at  last 
we  crossed  the  / router a and  entered  Nicaragua  at  the 
Hacienda  Pina  Blanca. 

If  we  hadn’t  been  informed  beforehand  that  this 
ranch  marked  the  border,  we  might  have  been  pardoned 
for  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  the  first  stage  of  our  over- 
land journey  was  completed.  There  was  no  monu- 
ment, of  course,  not  so  much  as  a blaze  on  a tree-trunk, 
to  show  the  boundary-line.  We  paused  to  administer 
a brief  mental  kicking  for  bothering  to  visit  the  customs 
officials  in  La  Cruz.  We  might  have  ridden  straight 
into  Nicaragua  without  anyone  having  shown  the 
slightest  interest. 

When  we  had  passed  the  Ranch  of  the  White  Pine 
the  discomforts  of  the  trail  vanished  magically  from 
our  minds.  We  pushed  on  toward  Sapoa  with  a return 
of  the  high  spirits  which  had  marked  departure  from 
San  Jose.  For  the  country  of  Nicarao  the  Cacique, 
whom  Don  Gil  Gonzales  de  Avila  had  “ converted  ” in 
1519,  whose  name  the  land  still  bears  in  a twisted  form, 
was  ours,  all  ours,  to  explore. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  we  saw  before  us  a long, 


SAPOA 


101 


low,  unpainted  building  on  the  southern  shore  of  the 
Gran  Lago.  We  rode  through  a gap  in  the  fence  that 
served  as  gate  to  inquire  of  a gaping  mozo  the  distance 
to  Sapoa.  He  stared  at  us  open-mouthed  for  an  instant, 
then  turned  and  called  to  a half-dozen  of  his  fellows, 
who  stood  watching  us. 

“ They  want  to  know  how  far  it  is  to  Sapoa  ! ” cried 
the  first  mozo,  and,  “ Sapoa  ! ” exclaimed  the  others 
with  deep  amazement.  “ Why — why,  senores,  this  is 
Sapoa  ! ” 

“ Then  may  we  sleep  here  to-night  and  get  food,  and 
almuerzo  (breakfast)  to-morrow  morning  ? ” 

“ Of  a certainty,  senores  ! ” 

“ And  maize  for  the  horses  ? ” 

“ Si  como  no  ! ” 

This,  the  favourite  expression  of  the  Central  American 
of  whatever  degree,  has  several  shades  of  meaning  : 
“ Of  course  ! ” “ Why  not  % ” “ Most  assuredly  ! ” 
“ Certainly  ! ” “ Who  can  doubt  it  ? ” One  has  to 
listen  very  carefully  to  the  inflection  to  get  the  reply  to 
a question. 

But  in  this  case  we  had  no  such  difficulty.  A mozo 
led  off  the  weary  nags  to  the  potrero,  stretching  from  the 
verandah-edge  to  the  shore  of  the  Rio  Sapoa,  and  gave 
them  maize.  We  hung  our  saddles  from  a beam  in  the 
roof  and  accepted  a cluster  of  ripe,  golden  bananas 
from  a beaming,  friendly  homhre  who  shoved  forward  a 
long  bench  to  serve  us  as  seat. 

From  where  we  loafed  there,  looking  across  the  brown 
fields  that  ran  down  to  the  river-bank,  we  could  see  the 
peones  coming  in  from  their  work  in  jungle  and  plain. 
Some  had  machetes  in  sheaths  at  their  belts,  or  carried 
rakishly  beneath  their  arms  ; others  bore  axes  with  six- 
foot  helves.  All  were  grinning  and  joking  with  one 


102  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

another,  a cheerful,  contented,  and  very  ragged  crew. 
A long  dugout  canoe  came  shooting  up  the  broad  river 
that  bisects  Sapoa,  to  unload  a cargo  of  bananas  upon 
the  bank  below  the  house. 

Twilight  came  as  we  talked  with  the  friendly  mozo  of 
the  simple  things  that  made  up  his  daily  life.  Through 
the  soft,  grey  haze  the  boy-of-all-work  moved  about 
his  evening  tasks,  bringing  water  in  two  huge  cans  upon 
a tiny  white  pack-horse,  or  carrying — on  the  back  of 
the  same  patient  little  beast — the  bananas  from  the 
river-bank  to  a store-room  in  the  house.  He  smiled 
gently  upon  us  each  time  he  passed. 

The  peones  answered  a shrill  yell  from  the  rear  by 
filing  back  to  the  kitchen  behind  the  house,  to  return 
with  gourd  dishes  heaped  high  with  black  beans,  boiled 
rice,  stewed  venison  with  chilis,  and  boiled  green  plan- 
tains. They  bolted  their  supper  in  silence  and  returned 
the  gourds  to  the  kitchen. 

We,  as  Yanques  and  paying  guests,  were  assigned 
seats  at  a table  on  the  rear  verandah.  The  foreman’s 
wife  brought  us  tin  plates  filled  with  similar  food  to 
that  the  peones  had  eaten,  but  with  the  substitution  of 
tortillas  for  the  boiled  plantains.  It  was  a good  meal 
by  Central  American  standards  and  we  brought  sharp 
appetites  to  the  work  of  eating. 

When  we  came  again  to  the  front  verandah,  which 
was  the  gathering-place  of  the  hands,  the  men  were 
seated  in  a compact  little  group  in  the  darkness. 
Apparently,  it  was  their  hour  of  recreation ; a guitar 
strummed  a plaintive,  monotonous  refrain  that  might 
have  been  the  voice  of  the  native,  for  its  monotony  was 
the  monotony  of  their  dull  lives  ; it  began  anywhere — 
or  nowhere — and  ended  abruptly,  without  warning. 
The  men  chanted  the  words  almost  beneath  their  breath  ; 


A RESTLESS  NIGHT  AT  SAPOA  103 

I have  heard  them  sing  many  times,  but  never  a word 
could  I ever  distinguish. 

There  was  a little  subdued  talk  and  laughter,  but  they 
seemed  embarrassed  by  our  presence.  One  brought 
out  a kerosene  lantern  and  placed  it  on  the  long  bench 
which  was  to  serve  as  our  bed,  then  gave  us  a muttered 
“ Buenas  noches,  Caballeros,”  and  disappeared  silently 
from  the  feeble  circle  of  light. 

We  passed  a restless  night.  Between  garrapatas  and 
tiny  red  insects  like  those  of  the  stable  at  Santa  Rosa 
we  had  few  idle  moments,  and  we  sprang  from  the 
infested  couch  at  the  first  red  streak  of  dawn  upon  the 
lake.  The  peones  were  already  setting  out  for  the 
field  and  they  filed  past  us  for  a solemn  handshake, 
each  man  murmuring  a smiling  “ Adios,  caballeros.” 

Four  reales  the  cook  set  as  the  price  of  our  lodging 
and  comida  of  the  night  before,  and  for  the  same  amount 
(in  Nicaragua,  since  American  intervention,  a real  is 
the  equivalent  of  ten  centavos  and  the  centavo  equals 
the  American  cent)  she  brought  us  fried  eggs,  chopped 
venison  and  rice,  sugared  nutcakes  and  excellent  coffee, 
with  white  sugar  and  fresh  milk  ! 

There  was  only  one  egg  in  the  kitchen  when  we  came 
out  for  breakfast,  so  the  cook's  young  son  was  set  to 
watch  a hen  on  a nest  beneath  the  rear  verandah.  He 
squatted  down  a few  feet  from  her  with  an  expression 
of  intense  interest  upon  his  round  brown  face  and 
stared  her  in  the  eye  as  if  intending  to  hypnotize  her. 
There  were  several  false  alarms,  but  at  last  the  hen  set 
her  mind  to  business  and  the  muchacho  dashed  in 
triumphantly,  bearing  the  warm  trophy. 

The  foreman  changed  an  American  ten-dollar  note 
for  billetes  of  the  republic,  giving  us  cordoba  for 
dollar,  for  in  Nicaragua,  owing  to  the  financial  arrange- 


104  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

ments  of  certain  New  York  bankers,  the  native  is  saddled 
with  a monetary  system  too  high  for  his  mode  of  living. 
The  cordoba,  or  peso , is  of  equal  value  to  the  silver 
dollar  of  the  United  States — until  one  desires  to  change 
it  for  American  currency.  Then  exchange  of  from  ten 
to  twenty  per  cent,  is  demanded. 

The  foreman  directed  us  to  the  trail  for  Rivas,  and 
we  set  out  at  a brisk  jogtrot,  heading  over  narrow  paths 
through  thick  jungle,  as  on  the  day  before.  It  was 
nearly  noon  when  we  came  to  the  Royal  Highway,  which, 
as  usual,  little  deserved  so  grandiloquent  a title.  It 
was  only  a bridlepath  threading  a leafy  glade,  bordered 
by  clumps  of  bamboo  withered  and  clanking  like  iron 
bars  in  the  slight  breeze,  of  wild  banana,  and  filled  with 
fallen  trees,  from  the  trunks  of  which  sprouted 
grotesquely  formed  parasitic  cacti.  The  larger  trees 
along  the  road,  such  as  the  dense-foliaged  matapala, 
were  encircled  by  wreathing  vines  which  had  spiralled 
up  the  trunk  and  cut  deeply  into  the  bark,  giving  the 
tree  the  appearance  of  a cask  bundled  into  an  over-tight 
net. 

Noon  found  us  still  trotting  along  this  jungle- trail 
and  we  had  passed  no  houses  since  leaving  Sapoa.  All 
was  unbroken  wilderness  about  us  ; matapalas,  pachotes, 
scrub-mahogany,  cedars,  patches  of  bananas  and  bamboo 
and  scrubby  thorn-bushes,  with  an  occasional  coco- 
palm  standing  in  solitary  grace  upon  a hilltop.  We 
halted  beside  a shallow  water-hole  and  bathed,  while 
the  horses  grazed  over  the  sparse  grass,  then  rode  on 
again. 

The  weary  animals  moved  at  a dispirited  walk  all 
afternoon  over  a land  baked  to  stonelike  hardness  by 
the  flaming  sun,  until  at  four  o’clock  we  came  by  many 
a twist  and  turn  back  to  the  shores  of  the  Gran  Lago. 


HOSPITALITY  IN  THE  GRAN  LAGO  105 


A passing  horseman  called  it  three  hours’  ride  to  Rivas, 
so  we  stopped  at  the  Hacienda  Puerto  and  hat  in  hand 
approached  the  kitchen  door. 

Experience  had  taught  us  that  in  asking  for  food  or 
lodging  in  these  countries  one  may  safely  eliminate  the 
man  of  the  house  from  the  calculation.  So  I made  my 
request  directly  to  the  cook.  She  protested  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  house  fit  for  Yanques  to  eat,  but, 
under  the  spell  of  my  most  involved  Castilian,  brought 
out  gourds  of  fresh  milk,  boiled  plantains,  black  beans 
and  a mound  of  fresh  cheese,  which  replaces  butter  on 
the  table  of  the  poor. 

She  hesitated  visibly  when  asked  the  score,  then 
murmured  diffidently,  “ Quince  centavos ” Fifteen 
cents  ! After  being  smilingly  charged  three  prices  for 
everything  in  Costa  Rica  and  being  made  often  to  feel 
like  the  proverbial  poor  relation  into  the  bargain,  the 
modest  demands  of  these  Nicaraguenses  of  the  south 
came  as  a surprise  indeed. 

Beyond  the  house  was  a deep,  narrow  bight  of  the 
Gran  Lago,  upon  which  a native  boatman  did  a thriving 
business  of  ferrying.  We  inquired  of  him  the  distance 
to  Rivas  and  he  assured  us  with  many  gestures  that  we 
would  make  it  in  two  hours  even  if  we  rode  slowly. 

“ Un  camino  bonito  ! ” he  called  it,  but  we  discounted 
his  description  of  the  trail  as  a “ pretty  road  ” some 
fifty  per  cent,  because  of  his  nationality.  We  swam  the 
horses  across  the  bight  and  continued  up  the  shore. 
The  swim  seemed  to  revive  the  horses’  flagging  spirits 
wonderfully.  They  went  at  a brisk  singlefoot  up  the 
sandy  beach,  breaking  into  a gallop  now  and  then  as  we 
faced  a long,  clear  stretch  of  hard  sand,  clearing  great  logs 
like  hunters,  as  if  seven  hours  of  weary  jungle- travel 
didn’t  lie  behind  their  hoofs.  So  we  went  on  through  the 


106  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

cool  of  early  evening  and  found,  to  our  vast  surprise, 
that  the  road  was  all  the  ferryman  had  proclaimed  it. 

For  most  of  the  way  we  followed  the  shore  of  the  lake, 
with  the  wavelets  lapping  at  the  horses’  fetlocks.  Much 
to  their  disgust — neither  had  seen  open  water  before,  I 
fancy — we  rode  them  belly-deep  into  the  water  and  cere- 
moniously dipped  up  a cupful.  We  had  been  drinking 
lake- water,  when  we  drank  at  all,  for  two  days,  but  this 
was  the  first  time  we  had  drunk  directly  from  the  Gran 
Lago. 

San  Francisco’s  famous  beach-road  cannot  surpass  in 
beauty  this  ride  at  twilight  along  the  shores  of  Lake 
Nicaragua.  Indeed,  I found  it  hard  to  realize  that  we 
weren’t  galloping  along  the  Pacific  near  Golden  Gate 
Park ; only  the  sight  of  Mount  Asero’s  cloud- wreathed 
summit  across  the  water  brought  home  to  me  the  fact 
that  we  were  on  a Nicaraguan  trail,  else  I should  have 
been  looking  for  the  Seal  Rocks  and  the  Cliff  House. 

Our  lasting  impression  of  Rivas  will  be  one  of 
white  road  shining  dimly  in  the  darkness,  with  the  scent 
of  clean  grey  dust  in  our  nostrils.  After  three  hours  of 
steady  riding  a cluster  of  lights  twinkled  far  ahead 
through  an  opening  in  the  trees  and  we  spurred  the  horses 
onward. 

Rivas  was  the  scene  of  William  Walker’s  last  ap- 
pearance on  the  Nicaraguan  stage,  the  place  where,  on 
May  1st,  1857,  he  surrendered  himself  and  the  Falange 
to  Captain  Davis  of  the  American  sloop-of-war  St. 
Mary’s.  Here  he  had  held  off  for  three  months  the 
combined  armies  of  the  Five  Republics ; not  many  feet 
of  the  adjoining  country  but  had  seen  the  fighting  of  his 
reckless,  straight- shooting  soldiers  ; the  town  itself  had 
been  in  turn  the  outpost  of  his  forces  and  those  of  his 
foes.  So  it  had  for  us  a peculiar  interest.  Too,  it  was 


RIVAS 


107 


credited  with  three  thousand  inhabitants  and  an  ice- 
plant,  and  we  were  anxious  to  investigate  the  truth  of 
the  latter  report. 

We  unsaddled  in  the  street  outside  the  Hotel  Central 
and  left  the  animals  to  be  led  away  by  a small  boy,  who 
had  been  our  guide  to  the  hostelry,  while  we  limped 
stiff- legged  into  a big,  tile-floored  room  where — pleasant 
sight  after  days  of  hand-to-mouth  existence  in  the 
Guanacaste — two  canvas  cots  spread  with  snowy  sheets 
awaited  our  tired  bodies. 

We  washed  away  some  of  the  grime  from  faces  and 
hands,  then  turned  uptown  and  stopped  with  the  crowd 
before  a moving-picture  exhibition  held  in  one  of  the 
larger  stores  of  the  place.  Here  were  ancient,  wrinkled 
women,  who  had  set  up  tables  in  the  street  to  vend  fried 
plantains,  little  iced  cakes  and  the  tiniest  of  meat-pies. 

The  sight  of  a cordoba  bill  came  near  to  paralysing 
the  old  woman  from  whom  we  purchased  cakes  and  she 
called  in  the  capital  of  her  fellow-vendors  to  provide 
change.  The  “ sights  ” of  the  town  were  soon  exhausted 
when  we  had  seen  the  old  church  and  the  plaza,  so  we 
went  back  after  half  an  hour  of  wandering  to  the  hotel. 
Here  the  landlady,  spite  our  protests  that  we  had 
already  eaten,  had  set  a light  meal  for  us.  Since  it 
included  coffee,  of  which  we  had  seen  far  too  little  in  the 
past  few  days,  we  managed  to  eat  again. 

The  landlady,  a Nicaraguensa  of  better  degree,  enter- 
tained us  as  we  sat  at  table,  and  from  her  we  learned  that 
the  steamer  plying  the  waters  of  the  Lago  between  San 
Jorge — the  village  a couple  of  miles  east  of  Rivas — and 
Granada,  affectionately  and  possessively  referred  to  by 
natives  of  the  region  as  “ Nuestro  Vapor  Muy  Grande  ” 
(“  Our  Very  Big  Steamer  ”),  had  gone  upon  the  beach  a 
few  days  before  and  was  now  undergoing  repairs.  So  it 


108  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

remained  for  us  to  make  our  way  by  road  to  Granada, 
sixty  miles  north  of  Rivas. 

As  we  sat  in  our  room  after  the  meal  it  occurred  to  us 
that  a cool  drink  would  be  very  welcome.  So  we  sent  a 
boy  after  iced  beer.  He  was  gone  so  long  that  we  went 
to  investigate,  and  we  found  him  in  the  kitchen,  sitting 
upon  the  floor,  with  two  bottles  of  cerveze  clasped  be- 
tween his  knees,  gravely  rubbing  the  outside  of  the 
bottles  with  a large  lump  of  ice  ! Not  yet  is  hielo  fully 
adopted  into  the  life  of  the  people,  it  seems. 

The  finger-tips  of  Civilization  have  touched  Rivas. 
We  were  sharply  awakened  next  morning  by  a series  of 
terrific  explosions  in  the  street  near  to  the  hotel.  Since 
my  dreams  had  been  concerned  with  Walker  and  his 
exploits,  particularly  with  the  assault  upon  the  garrison 
by  the  “ Allies/'  it  is  hardly  surprising  that  the  uproar 
fitted  into  the  dream,  and  that  I found  myself  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  six-shooter  cocked,  pre- 
pared to  defend  the  room  to  the  last  shell.  But  it  was 
only  the  usual  racket  attending  the  departure  of  the 
automobile-stage  for  Granada.  Judging  from  the  sound 
of  the  exhaust,  some  enterprising  Yanque  had  palmed 
off  his  '08  or  '09  touring  car  on  a citizen  of  Rivas. 

It  was  nearly  dawn,  the  pleasantest  hour  of  the  day 
in  that  blazing  land.  We  opened  the  street  door  and 
looked  out  upon  a town  softened  in  outline  by  a cool, 
grey  haze  that  was  in  part  mist  from  the  Lago.  The 
lechero — the  milkman — rode  past  upon  a scrawny  pony, 
with  pipe-stem  legs  thrust  straight  out  between  the  four 
great  milkcans  that  burdened  his  beast.  Next  in  the 
regular  procession  of  daily  events  came  the  civic  water- 
cart,  a large,  galvanized-iron  tank  set  upon  an  ox-cart. 
This  vehicle  stopped  at  almost  every  door  and  the  driver 
drew  ofE  cans  of  water  for  the  households. 


THE  NICARAGUAN  CANAL 


109 


Our  breakfast  couldn’t  bave  been  bettered — in  quality 
— even  by  a San  Francisco  chef.  The  mozo  brought  in 
a broad  tray,  laden  with  oranges,  Parker  House  rolls  with 
excellent  butter,  scrambled  eggs,  jam  and  cafe  con  leche. 
We  ate  in  the  dining-room  opening  upon  the  flower- 
scented  patio  of  the  house,  where  the  morning  breeze 
came  in  to  ruffle  the  snowy  tablecloth. 

Our  conversation  with  the  landlady  the  night  before, 
concerning,  among  other  topics,  the  Nicaraguan  Canal, 
seemed  to  have  given  the  Rivasites  the  impression  that 
we  were  somehow  connected  with  that  unfortunate  enter- 
prise. The  other  breakfasters  glanced  curiously  in  our 
direction  as  they  entered  the  dining-room,  while  one 
gimlet-eyed  hornbre  posted  himself  at  the  door  to  stare 
at  us  while  we  ate,  and  upon  our  return  to  our  room  took 
up  station  across  the  street  where  he  could  watch  us 
saddle  the  nags  for  departure. 

It  is  still  a subject  of  engrossing  interest  to  Nicaragu- 
enses,  this  canal  which  was  never  dug.  In  the  early 
nineties,  when  it  seemed  that  the  trans-continental 
waterway  would  surely  cross  Central  America  from  Brito 
on  the  Pacific  to  Greytown  on  the  Caribbean,  speculators, 
both  native  and  foreign,  bought  up  all  the  land  they  could 
get  hold  of  along  the  proposed  route.  Now  they,  or 
their  descendants,  cling  to  these  arid  acres  which  were 
once  potential  fortunes.  They  refuse  to  believe  that  the 
canal  will  never  be  dug  ; with  an  optimism  almost  pitiful 
they  hang  on  to  the  land,  discussing  with  anyone  who 
will  listen  the  many  advantages  of  this  route  over  that 
of  Panama.  Every  wandering  white  man  is  a surveyor, 
no  matter  what  he  may  say  to  the  contrary.  So  they 
follow  him  about,  eager  for  some  clue  which  will  more 
firmly  establish  them  in  their  dreams. 

Edna  lagged  noticeably  as  we  left  the  town,  but 


110  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

mustered  up  enough  energy  to  shy  at  the  confusion  of 
the  market-place,  filled  with  herds  of  horses  and  cattle, 
loaded  ox-wains  and  natives  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages, 
each  with  something  to  sell. 

The  highway  toward  Granada  was  both  broad  and 
smooth,  bordered  on  the  right  by  tall  trees.  For  the 
first  few  miles  it  was  crowded  with  wayfarers  on  horse- 
back or  afoot,  bound  for  the  market  at  Rivas.  Sturdy, 
barefooted  men  in  straw  hats  with  high,  peaked  crowns, 
and  loose  camisas  of  canary  yellow  or  brilliant  blue 
hanging  over  their  trousers,  passed  us  singly  and  in 
groups.  Slim,  straight-backed  girls  in  gaudy  reds, 
yellows  and  greens  strode  past  with  never  a glance  to 
right  or  left,  carrying  upon  their  mantilla- shrouded 
heads  baskets  of  vegetables  and  fruits,  or  great  earthen 
jars.  Like  all  the  peoples  which  bear  burdens  on  the 
head,  these  women  walked  with  splendid  grace,  shoulders 
well  back,  arms  swinging  vigorously  and  rhythmically, 
deep  chests  rising  and  falling  evenly.  In  all  the  travel- 
lers we  met  the  Indian  strain  was  strong,  evidenced  in 
the  dark,  chocolate-red  colouring,  the  high  cheekbones, 
thin  lips  and  beady  black  eyes.  They  seemed  sullen, 
after  the  bubbling  cheerfulness  of  the  Costaricense. 

After  a few  miles  of  this  pleasant  jogging,  the  houses 
with  their  patches  of  bananas,  bamboo  or  pasture-land 
were  not  so  frequent.  Long,  arid  stretches  of  scrub 
timber  replaced  the  cultivated  tracts,  with  white  and 
brown  squirrels  and  tiny  weaver-birds  playing  in  the 
branches  of  the  low  trees. 

We  passed  Belen,  a long,  straggling  village  of  white- 
washed adobe  houses  stretching  for  a mile  or  more  along 
the  road,  and  came  at  noon  to  a large  farm-house  set 
in  a little  clump  of  trees,  with  a well  and  water-trough 
for  stock. 


SOME  OF  THE  WEARERS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  WOODEN  MASKS,  NICARAGUA. 


ANOTHER  VIEW  OF  MASKED  CELEBRANTS,  NICARAGUA. 


110] 


SCANT  HOSPITALITY 


111 


Here  we  halted  for  the  noon  meal.  We  ate  by  turns, 
for  the  establishment  boasted  of  but  one  knife,  one  fork 
and  one  spoon,  and  Norm  had  drawn  the  fork.  It  has 
always  been  difficult  for  me  to  eat  with  a knife  with  any 
degree  of  comfort  to  myself  or  the  onlookers,  so  I waited 
until  Norm  was  done,  then  attacked  in  my  turn  a huge 
plateful  of  rice  and  beans. 

At  two  o'clock  we  pushed  on,  with  Edna  trailing  at 
the  uttermost  end  of  the  forty-foot  lariat  fixed  to  Norm’s 
saddle-horn,  while  I walked  on  ahead.  From  time  to 
time  we  stopped,  and  usually,  as  we  sat  beside  the  road 
smoking,  passengers  in  ox- carts  would  pause  to  stare  at 
us.  Few  of  them  would  speak  ; they  merely  took  their 
fill  of  staring,  then  the  carts  creaked  on. 

At  sundown  we  turned  aside  to  a house  beside  the 
trail,  near  the  Rio  Tenedor,  and  asked  hospitality. 
The  man  of  the  house  gave  surly  consent,  so  we  piled 
saddles  and  alforjas  upon  the  verandah,  and  the  woman 
of  the  house,  as  surly  and  taciturn  as  her  man,  set  out 
for  us  the  usual  rice,  black  beans  and  tortillas,  with 
gourds  of  cold,  foaming  pinole. 

Throughout  the  length  of  Nicaragua — save  on  the 
very  border  of  Costa  Rica — the  people  gave  grudging 
hospitality,  but  never  refused  outright.  The  poorer 
class  of  the  country  is  poor  indeed,  and  despite  their 
hatred  of  white  faces,  which  seems  to  be  the  most 
deeply  rooted  instinct  in  every  Nicaraguan,  cupidity 
outweighed  racial  animosity. 

We  were  utterly  ignored  by  the  family  when  we  had 
eaten,  and  as  soon  as  darkness  had  come  we  spread 
the  blankets  upon  the  tiled  floor  of  the  verandah. 
Came  the  sound  of  a girl  inside  the  house  telling  her 
beads  in  a shrill  wail  as  if  bemoaning  some  monstrous 
sin,  the  fretful  crying  of  a baby  and  from  far  off  toward 


112  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

the  Gran  Lago  the  muttered  rumbling  of  a Congo. 
Then  sleep  at  last. 

We  had  coffee  and  cold  tortillas  at  the  first  crimsoning 
of  the  eastern  sky  next  morning,  sitting  at  a rough 
table  facing  a wall  papered  with  pictures  cut  from 
English  and  American  illustrated  journals.  It  was  odd 
to  see  the  pure  Indian  features  of  the  girl  who  served 
us,  silhouetted  against  the  white  paper  beside  a photo- 
graph of  Elsie  Janis  (upon  whom  be  the  peace  !). 

Our  host  was  no  more  cordial  than  he  had  been  the 
night  before,  so  we  saddled  the  horses,  paid  our  score 
of  six  reales  and  rode  slowly  on  toward  Granada. 
Edna  managed  an  alternate  running-walk  and  foxtrot 
without  displaying  exceeding  distress,  which  relieved 
our  minds  concerning  her  condition.  We  were  content 
to  ride  quietly  along  the  dusty,  rutted  road  over  the 
green-brown  country,  watching  the  grey  and  black 
monkeys  swinging  head  downward  in  the  scrubby  trees 
as  they  chattered  facetiously  among  themselves,  or 
turning  in  the  saddle  to  start  up  with  a yell  a flock  of 
brilliantly  coloured  macaws  which  had  been  perched 
like  disreputable  buccaneers  on  a fence-rail. 

As  we  jogged  along  the  dusty  camino,  bordered 
alternately  by  the  light  green  of  the  cane-fields  and  the 
darker  emerald  of  banana-plantations,  past  thatched 
huts  and  primitive  sugar-mills,  we  caught  up  with  and 
passed  many  groups  of  surly  hombres,  striding  dourly 
along,  each  with  his  little  bundle  of  possessions  dangling 
from  the  end  of  the  naked-bladed  machete  he  carried 
over  his  shoulder. 

These  fellows  neither  gave  nor  returned  greeting,  and 
once,  when  two  had  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow 
track,  I was  forced  to  ride  so  near  one  that  my  right 
alforja  brushed  his  back.  Even  then  he  made  no  move 


WEARING  THE  GUNS  OUTSIDE  113 


to  let  me  pass ; instead,  he  whirled  with  a guttural 
snarl  and  fingered  his  vicious  blade  suggestively. 

In  deference  to  the  advice  given  us  by  men  familiar 
with  Nicaragua,  we  hadn’t  attempted  to  get  official 
permits  to  carry  firearms  such  as  we  had  been  granted 
in  Costa  Rica.  We  had  been  told  that  our  revolvers 
would  be  confiscated  by  the  authorities  if  we  wore  them 
openly,  so  they  were  packed  in  the  alforjas.  Thought 
of  their  inaccessibility  came  to  me  very  suddenly  at 
sight  of  that  razor-edged  machete,  unsheathed,  three 
feet  in  glittering  blade-length  and  full  four  inches  wide. 

So  I touched  Edna  with  the  rowel  and  she  leaped  on 
past  the  mozo,  knocking  him  sprawling.  Twenty  feet 
away  and  facing  him,  I dug  out  the  white-handled  Colt 
from  the  saddle-bag  and  grimly  buckled  it  on.  Norm, 
turning  in  the  saddle  to  learn  the  reason  for  my  delay, 
silently  followed  suit.  We  decided  that,  since  it  was 
necessary  to  play  an  “ Old  West  ” role  to  secure  free 
passage  of  the  highways,  we  would  risk  running  afoul 
of  the  policia. 

A mile  farther  we  had  reason  to  be  thankful  for  our 
arming.  A group  of  peones,  seven  or  eight  in  number, 
had  sprawled  in  the  grass  at  the  roadside.  A large  flask 
passed  freely,  and  as  we  approached  two  men  rose  and 
sauntered  into  the  middle  of  the  narrow  way,  standing 
as  if  they  had  merely  paused  for  an  instant.  Their 
companions  were  grinning  expectantly,  in  anticipation 
of  the  jest,  it  seemed. 

We  were  riding  stirrup-to-stirrup  now,  and  when 
directly  before  the  men  they  moved  almost  impercep- 
tibly so  that  they  filled  the  path  completely.  Appar- 
ently, they  expected  to  force  us  aside  into  the  broken, 
rutty  ditch.  But  Norm  was  beginning  to  show  his 
war-grin  and  suddenly,  with  a Comanche  yell,  he  jerked 
8 


114  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

his  six-shooter  from  the  holster  and  fired  twice  in  air, 
clapping  spurs  to  Twopercent  at  the  same  time.  I 
followed  suit,  and  Edna,  frightened  by  the  gunfire, 
charged  down  upon  the  hombres  with  teeth  bared 
savagely. 

The  result  was  ludicrous.  The  would-be  jokers 
tarried  not  upon  the  order  of  their  going,  and  as  we 
rode  on  grinning,  cleaning  the  guns,  we  could  see  them 
still  streaking  across  the  fields  as  if  the  ghosts  of 
Walker  and  all  his  Falange  were  at  their  heels. 

After  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  hitch  the  guns 
forward  where  they  could  be  seen  readily  and  we  were 
accorded  our  half  of  the  road.  The  travellers  we  met 
regarded  us  respectfully,  if  not  cordially,  for  in  Central 
America  the  native  has  a vast  respect  either  for  a white 
man  or  a six-shooter,  and  when  the  two  are  combined 
he  walks  softly  around.  Personally,  in  Nicaragua, 
where  the  natives  look  upon  any  white  man  with  almost 
fanatical  hatred,  I would  rather  have  my  Colt  than  a 
safe-conduct  signed  by  all  the  presidents  from  William 
Walker  to  Chamorro. 

At  noon  we  rode  into  a town  of  thatched  huts  and 
white-fronted  adobes,  rejoicing  in  the  musical  name  of 
Nandaime.  It  was  another  spot  bringing  memory  of 
Walker,  for  with  his  blue-shirts  he  had  marched  through 
this  village,  camping  near  it,  when  en  route  from 
Granada  to  make  an  attack  upon  Rivas. 

In  a little  restaurant  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  we 
joined  a company  of  wayfarers  at  a meal  of  beans  and 
rice,  then  lounged  in  the  patio  until  the  animals  had 
finished  their  maize.  Granada  was  only  seventeen 
miles  farther,  we  were  told,  so  at  two  o’clock,  when  the 
midday  heat  had  somewhat  subsided,  we  pushed  on. 
A slight  drizzle  laid  the  dust  and  brought  welcome 


WATER  FOR  OURSELVES  AND  HORSES  115 


coolness  to  the  air,  and  the  horses  kept  up  a steady 
foxtrot. 

Never  a stream  did  we  see  during  the  entire  afternoon. 
The  people  of  this  region  depend  entirely  upon  wells 
for  their  water,  even  for  that  with  which  they  irrigate 
their  tiny  cornfields.  These  wells  are  usually  very 
deep,  some  of  them  drilled  half  a thousand  feet  through 
solid  rock.  They  are  consequently  expensive,  so  pro- 
prietary, undertakings.  Each  well  had  its  keeper,  who 
collected  from  the  people  for  the  water  they  carried 
away. 

At  such  a well  we  watched  a team  of  patient  bullocks 
treading  round  a rude  spindle,  which  wound  up  the 
well-rope  and  drew  a hundred-gallon  iron  bucket  to  the 
surface,  where  it  was  dumped — by  a trigger  also  operated 
by  the  oxen — into  a big,  cemented  trough  to  fill  the 
water-cans  of  the  women  and  boys  who  came  with 
pack-animals  for  water.  It  required  twenty  minutes 
by  the  watch  for  the  huge  can  to  rise  to  the  well-lip. 

We  paid  our  toll  of  two  centavos  for  the  water  con- 
sumed by  the  horses  and  ourselves,  then,  as  we  waited 
for  the  well-keeper  to  give  us  change,  discovered  a glass 
jar  of  crude  candy  in  the  well-house.  No  one  who 
hasn’t  experienced  the  dearth  of  sweets  that  marks 
Central  American  travel  can  imagine  with  what  avidity 
we  fell  upon  that  stock  of  candy.  We  bought  eighteen 
centavos’  worth  and  rode  off  with  the  prize  wrapped  in 
sheets  of  old  newspaper,  leaving  the  well-keeper  agape 
with  the  magnitude  of  our  purchase. 

At  the  well  we  had  been  assured  that  we  would  arrive 
in  Granada  at  half-past  five,  but  so  used  were  we  by 
now  to  the  marvellous  flexibility  of  Central  American 
time — a subject  worthy  of  a book  by  itself,  for  down 
there  the  people  crowd  at  least  forty-eight  hours  into 


116  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

the  shortest  day,  by  the  most  conservative  reckoning — 
that  we  regarded  this  statement  as  but  a pleasant  fiction. 
We  expected  the  worst  and  hoped  for  the  best/'  in 
the  words  of  the  negro  reverend. 

But  at  four-thirty,  through  an  opening  in  the  foliage 
like  a casement  in  the  jungle- wall,  we  glimpsed  the 
Gran  Lago,  with  the  cathedral  of  Granada  near-by. 
Edna  was  stumbling  constantly  over  the  inclines  and 
twists  of  the  camino  and  she  chose  this  instant  to  fall 
full  length  in  the  thick  dust,  throwing  me  over  her  head 
face  downward.  When  I got  up  it  was  with  clothes 
white  as  a miller’s. 

We  jogged  on  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  picturesque 
Moorish-Spanish-Nicaraguan  city,  risen  phoenix-like  on 
the  site  of  the  old  city  destroyed  by  Walker  in  December 
1856,  and  marked  by  the  significant  proclamation  “ Aqui 
fue  Granada  ! ” (“  Here  was  Granada  ! ”).  Nineteen 
thousand  inhabitants,  the  atlas-makers  acknowledge  to 
the  town,  and  from  its  extent  as  we  rode  through  it, 
accompanied  by  numerous  other  passengers  on  horse- 
or  mule-back,  we  could  credit  the  estimate. 

We  inquired  our  way  to  the  Hotel  Sultana,  recom- 
mended to  us  by  the  restaurant-keeper  in  Nandaime, 
and  were  welcomed  hospitably  by  the  landlord,  an 
elderly,  well-educated  Spaniard  from  Madrid  (so  he 
told  us  with  vast  pride  almost  before  we  had  dis- 
mounted). He  led  the  way  into  a huge  bedroom  where 
we  piled  our  gear  upon  the  tiled  floor.  As  we  unrolled 
our  blankets  the  landlord  reappeared  at  the  street  door, 
leading,  with  an  expression  of  the  utmost  seriousness, 
the  horses  from  the  sidewalk  into  our  dormitorio.  For  a 
moment  we  thought  he  expected  us  to  sleep  with  our 
steeds  in  the  fashion  of  story-book  Arabs,  but  he  only 
meant  to  take  them — Edna  stepping  daintily  upon  the 


GRANADA  117 

slippery  tiles — through  the  room  and  into  a courtyard 
beyond. 

After  splashing  away  the  dust  of  travel  under  a rude 
shower-bath  in  the  courtyard  we  sat  down  to  an  excel- 
lent meal  of  many  courses  in  the  patio.  There  was  a 
wandering  quack  doctor  upon  my  left,  proprietor  of  a 
variety  of  wonderful  mud  pills  which  he  claimed  were 
infallible  remedies  for  a tremendous  printed  list  of 
infirmities  of  flesh  and  mind.  When  he  discovered  that 
we  were  members  of  the  unspeakable  Yanque  tribe,  he 
began  to  preach  a holy  war,  waving  his  knife  cutlass- 
wise  to  punctuate  his  anti-American  tirade.  We 
managed  to  insult  him  into  comparative  silence  (the 
soup  course  was  past)  and  finished  our  meal  in  peace. 

Twilight  brought  out  the  promenaders  in  plaza  and 
main  streets.  The  younger  generation  of  Granada 
seemed  much  addicted  to  American  and  European 
styles.  The  youths  were  in  blue  serge  coats  and  white 
trousers  and  shoes,  with  stiff  straw  hats  or  panamas  of 
orthodox  variety.  We  came  upon  two  fellow-country- 
men in  the  bar  of  the  Alhambra  and  they  volunteered 
to  show  us  the  matchless  beach-road  of  Granada,  en 
automobile  ! 

The  road  twists  and  turns  with  the  shore  of  the  Gran 
Lago,  and  the  view  of  the  purple-black  reaches  of  the 
Lake,  with  the  white  moonlight  reflected  in  a long  path- 
way across  the  still  water,  is  all  that  it  is  claimed.  But 
the  road  had  not  been  designed  for  automobiles  and  the 
driver  betrayed  a naive  ignorance  of  the  effects  of  a spill 
over  a cliff.  We  enjoyed  the  drive,  but  it  was  with  relief 
that  we  climbed  out  again  without  scars  to  show  for  the 
trip. 

Midnight  came  while  we  sat  over  iced  drinks,  with  the 
ghostlike  figures  of  the  townspeople  drifting  past  our 


118  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

table,  and  an  orchestra  somewhere  in  the  mellow  distance 
waking  thoughts  of  other  nights.  One  of  the  Americans 
wished  to  buy  Edna  and  my  saddle,  which  we  had 
decided  to  dispose  of,  in  preparation  for  the  next  stage 
of  our  journey. 

With  a lantern  borrowed  from  the  old  woman  who  kept 
the  pulqueria  Norm  and  I turned  back  toward  the 
Sultana,  startled,  now  and  then,  by  the  jack-in-a-box 
appearance  of  a policeman  popping  out  of  a dusky  door- 
way to  eye  us  suspiciously  before  he  vanished  into  his 
hole  again. 

The  racking  cough  of  the  quack  doctor  in  the  adjoining 
room — who  was,  perhaps,  above  his  own  remedies — 
roused  us  at  dawn.  After  coffee  Norm  saddled  Two- 
percent  for  the  ride  to  Managua,  sixty-four  kilometres 
distant,  leaving  me  to  dispose  of  Edna  and  follow  by 
train. 

With  the  two  Americans  I whiled  away  the  Sunday 
morning,  in  the  poverty-stricken  market-place,  which 
reminded  me  more  of  the  scenes  of  Mexico  than  the 
collections  of  prosperous  shops  in  Costa  Rican  towns. 

Granada’s  immaculate  young  men  looked  askance 
at  my  khakis,  boots  and  Stetson  when  I went  to  break- 
fast in  the  Alhambra  with  my  new  acquaintances. 
“ Minero,”  they  said  to  one  another,  and  their  glances 
seemed  to  ask  why  I should  appear  in  working-clothes 
in  their  midst.  There  is  no  more  thorough  cosmopolite 
than  the  Latin,  even  though  his  father  may  be  wandering, 
barefooted  and  with  his  shirt-tail  dangling,  somewhere  in 
the  immediate  background. 

Having  completed  the  details  of  the  sale  of  Edna  and 
my  riding-gear  that  evening,  we  sat  on  the  verandah  of 
the  Alhambra  and  listened  to  the  band-concert  in  the 
plaza  across  the  street.  Presently  all  the  white  colony 


THE  RAILWAY  STATION 


119 


of  the  town  came  drifting  up,  to  lounge  in  the  big  cane 
chairs  and  chat  slowly,  in  lazy,  drawling  phrases,  of  life 
in  the  Five  Republics.  We  numbered  seven  in  all  and 
the  hours  slipped  past  without  our  marking  them,  until 
it  was  midnight  and  time  to  say  both  good  night  and 
good-bye. 

Once  more,  this  time  without  the  friendly  lantern  to 
light  a course  along  the  four-foot  curbings  of  the  streets, 
I alarmed  the  drowsing  policemen  as  I made  my  way 
through  the  deserted,  unlit  calles  to  the  Sultana,  to  ham- 
mer upon  the  door  until  the  landlord,  with  head  and  face 
wrapped  like  a Bedouin’s  against  the  “ dangerous  ” 
night  air,  appeared  to  admit  me. 

After  breakfast  next  morning,  when  I had  paid  our 
score,  I was  waited  upon  by  three  Jamaican  negroes,  who 
had  halted  me  in  the  street  the  day  before  to  beg  alms. 
They  formed  themselves  into  a guard  of  honour ; one 
called  a carriage,  while  the  others  bore  my  alforjas  to  it 
when  it  arrived.  I distributed  three  reales  among  them, 
leaving  them  with  broad  expanses  of  white  teeth  splitting 
the  jet  of  their  comical  faces,  and  the  driver  whipped  up 
his  lanky  nags  for  the  railway  station  on  the  other  side 
of  Granada. 

There  was  a surging,  shrieking  mob  about  the  ticket- 
window.  Each  individual  waved  his  or  her  money  in  the 
air  and  screamed  the  name  of  the  station  of  destination. 
My  toes  were  trampled  upon  and  my  clothing  disarranged 
as  I stood  helplessly  on  the  outskirts  of  this  assembly. 
So  I brought  modem  football  tactics  into  play  and  dived 
into  the  crowd,  to  emerge  a few  moments  later  with 
weaving  elbows,  very  much  dishevelled  of  appearance, 
but  clutching  triumphantly  a tiquete  to  Managua,  which 
had  cost  exactly  one  centavo  for  each  of  the  sixty-four 
kilometres. 


120  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

The  usual  mixed  gathering  filled  the  coach  I entered. 
There  were  planters  and  their  numerous  progeny ; a 
padre,  very  sleek,  well-nourished  and  content  with  life 
as  the  Church  made  it ; a piggy-eyed  doctor  whose 
embonpoint  rivalled  that  of  the  priest ; the  comandante 
of  a little  pueblo  just  outside  Granada,  whom  we  had  seen 
two  nights  before  on  a spree ; and  two  perfumed  and 
giggling  ladies  of  the  most  ancient  profession,  with  great 
showing  of  paste  jewellery  around  their  heavily  powdered 
necks.  To  these  the  comandante — not  yet  sober — paid 
impartial  court. 

At  Masaya,  a city  of  thirteen  thousand  inhabitants 
lying  between  Granada  and  the  capital,  the  train  waited 
at  the  station  (or  so  it  seemed  to  me)  for  belated  passen- 
gers. There  was  a religious  fiesta  in  full  blast  and  the 
streets  were  jammed  by  swaying,  applauding,  not-too- 
sober  crowds.  Processions  of  celebrants  went  up  and 
down,  weirdly  dressed  figures  with  masks,  some  of  which, 
I was  told,  were  very  ancient.  In  one  of  the  streets  a 
chanting  group  were  performing  a queer  dance  ; the 
dancers,  also,  wore  the  wooden  masks,  and  skins  of 
jaguar  and  leon  hung  down  their  backs. 

As  we  waited  for  the  train  to  move,  a procession  of 
women  and  children  filed  through  the  coach  carrying 
trays  of  oranges,  bananas,  candy,  cheap  native-made 
toys,  tobacco  and  cooked  food.  For  five  centavos  I pur- 
chased a dozen  slim,  brown  cigarettes  and  a box  of 
Japanese  safety-matches.  No  sooner  had  I produced 
the  money  than  I was  assailed  by  a group  of  loathsome 
beggars,  old  men  and  women  in  filthy  rags,  afflicted 
with  every  disease  and  deformity  I had  ever  seen  except 
leprosy.  They  were  led  by  small  boys  and  girls  who 
begged  for  their  charges  in  the  professional  whine  of  the 
alms- seeker  the  world  over. 


NICARAGUAN  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  121 


A greasy  mechanic  wiped  out  an  axle-box  of  the  little 
oil-burning  locomotive  and  repacked  it,  and  when  he 
had  finished  the  engineer  set  the  echoes  quivering  with 
his  whistle.  We  moved  forward  ten  feet,  perhaps,  to 
halt  with  a sudden  jerk  before  a pig  which  had  paused 
upon  the  track  to  look  in  every  direction  and  decide  the 
trend  of  its  future  movements. 

A sandalled  hornbre,  of  meek  and  resigned  countenance, 
followed  humbly  after  the  pig,  in  his  hand  the  end  of  a 
rope  attached  to  the  porker’s  hindleg.  We  waited  until 
the  pig  had  charted  its  course,  then  drew  slowly  out  of 
the  station. 

The  point  which  impressed  me  most  was  the  subordina- 
tion of  everything  else  to  that  pig’s  whimsies.  The 
loungers  on  the  station  platform  watched  the  pig  and 
follower  with  the  utmost  interest ; the  engineer  leaned 
from  the  cab- window  and  waited  calmly  ; even  the  pas- 
sengers betrayed  no  irritation  at  the  delay.  All  seemed 
to  recognize  the  Irish  tendencies  of  the  pig-tribe  and 
sympathize  with  the  luckless  mozo  doomed  to  trail  in 
the  porker’s  wake. 

At  Masaya  a huge  Nicaraguense  lawyer  had  bestowed 
his  bulk  in  the  narrow  seat  beside  me.  From  there  to 
Managua  he  wallowed  restlessly  as  he  held  animated 
conversation  with  the  two  ladies  of  the  profession  in  the 
seat  behind,  who  had  been  deserted  by  the  comandante. 
I was  crushed  between  his  dreadnought- like  sides  and  the 
coach- wall,  and  with  his  every  wriggle  came  near  to  being 
thrusti  bodily  out  of  the  open  window.  But  I was 
revenged. 

My  oil-tanned  boots  had  accumulated  a thick  coat  of 
grey  dust  during  the  ride  to  Granada,  and  I kept  them 
moving  painstakingly  against  the  attorney’s  white 
flannel  trousers.  The  effect  was  all  that  I could  have 


122  COUNTRY  OF  NICARAO  THE  CACIQUE 

desired  and  thereafter  I kept  my  feet  working  steadily. 
When  my  seatmate  disembarked  at  Managua  it  afforded 
me  keen  pleasure  to  note  the  zebra  pattern  of  his  trousers- 
legs  and  I reflected  with  placid  malevolence  upon  the 
ineradicable  nature  of  those  markings. 

At  a tiny  station  outside  Masaya  came  interruption 
to  our  journey  : a sturdy,  full-bosomed  woman  had  en- 
tered the  first-class  carriage  and  planted  herself  solidly 
in  the  aisle,  leaning  back  against  the  edge  of  the  seat. 
The  conductor  asked  for  her  tiquete,  and  after  inspecting 
the  pasteboard  informed  her  that  she  could  ride  only 
in  the  second-class  coach.  She  shook  her  head  and  set 
her  grim  mouth  in  a straighter  line.  The  conductor 
expostulated  ; she  ignored  him.  Passengers  explained 
to  her  that  second-class  tiquetes  entitled  one  only  to 
second-class  accommodations ; she  seemed  not  to  hear. 

At  last  the  conductor  lost  patience  with  her.  He 
reached  above  his  head  and  yanked  the  whistle-cord,  and 
the  train  stopped  with  the  suddenness  of  a bullet  striking 
against  a wall,  the  locked  wheels  screaming  as  they  slid 
over  the  light  rails.  Then  the  conductor  informed  the 
rebel  that  here  the  train  remained  until  she  took  her 
proper  seat  in  the  second-class  carriage.  She  held  out 
for  ten  minutes  by  the  lawyer’s  fat  watch,  then,  very 
sullenly,  gathered  up  her  numerous  bundles  and  went 
forward. 

As  a dabbler  in  psychology  I found  the  scene  inter- 
esting. Here,  as  in  the  case  of  the  pig,  there  was  perfect 
calmness.  Once  the  conductor  decided  that  she  knew 
her  proper  place  he  wasted  no  further  arguments  upon 
her,  nor  did  the  passengers.  Not  a hand  was  laid  upon 
her  ; not  a threat  was  made.  With  beautiful  placidity 
all  hands  prepared  to  remain  in  that  spot  for  the  rest  of 
their  natural  lives — or  so  it  seemed — if  the  woman 


NICARAGUAN  SENTRY  ON  DUTY,  CAMPO  DEL  MARTS,  MANAGUA. 


ANCIENT  MAYAN  POTTERY'  FROM  OMETEPE  ISLAND,  LAKE  NICARAGUA. 


122] 


MANAGUA  123 

refused  to  take  her  seat  with  the  other  second-class 
passengers. 

The  country  grew  more  thickly  settled  toward  the 
capital,  and  past  La  Primavera,'a  tiny  station  set  down 
forlornly  in  the  middle  of  a bare,  brown  plain,  with  noth- 
ing springlike  about  it  except  its  name,  came  the  first 
glimpse  of  Lake  Managua,  a smaller,  more  picturesque 
body  of  water  than  its  sister-lake,  the  Gran  Lago,  with 
which  it  is  connected  by  the  Rio  Tipitapa.  We 
debouched  from  a narrow, house- lined  street  into  the  open 
estaci&n  of  Managua  ; Norm  waved  in  the  background, 
and,  after  a final,  gloating  glance  at  the  attorney’s  striped 
trousers,  I elbowed  through  the  crowd  to  where  he  waited. 


CHAPTER  V 


MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 


Capital  of  Nicaragua — Selling  “ Twopercent  ” — Walker, 
“The  King  of  the  Filibusters” — Native  Politics — Foreign 
Colony  of  Managua — Mosquitoes  de  Luxe — Ready  for  the 
Long  Traverse — North  Again. 

TOWNS,  countries,  peoples,  each  inspires  individual 
observers  with  conflicting  emotions.  So  one 
man’s  opinion  of  a country  or  a city  can  stand 
for  little  more  than  that  — his  private  opinion. 
Since  my  return  to  the  States  I have  read,  with  keen 
interest,  Richard  Harding  Davis’s  impressions  of  the 
capital  of  Nicaragua  and  find  that  I differ  with  bim  on 
almost  every  point.  This  may  be  because  it  was  a 
good  many  years  ago  that  Davis  visited  Central 
America,  or,  more  probably,  for  the  reason  I have  just 
set  down — the  difference  in  view-point  of  two  individuals. 
The  safest  thing  a traveller  can  do,  it  seems,  is  to 
describe  things  as  he  sees  them,  giving  (as  Davis  did 
most  ably)  some  account  of  the  emotions  wakened  by 
the  sight,  then  let  the  reader  analyse,  eliminate,  expand, 
decide  for  himself. 

When  my  alforjas  had  been  deposited  in  the  room 
Norm  had  taken  at  the  “ Grand  Hotel  of  Lupone,”  we 
settled  down  at  a table  in  the  front  garden  of  the 
hotel,  where  we  could  discuss  over  tall,  frosted  glasses 
the  people  in  the  street  before  us — or  any  other  subject 
of  interest. 


124 


THE  PRESIDENT’S  HOUSE 


125 


There  was  but  little  wind  that  day  and  consequently 
very  little  of  the  whirling  dust  that  distresses  the  town’s 
population  ordinarily.  A high  breeze  brings  dancing 
dust-devils  worthy  of  the  Great  Sahara  or — El  Paso, 
Texas. 

A visit  to  the  American  Ministry,  a two-story  building 
almost  hidden  behind  a luxuriant  tropical  garden,  with  a 
most  business-like  marine  sentry  in  the  hallway,  left  us 
feeling  very  much  like  wanderers  and  orphans,  for  Mr. 
Jefferson,  the  Minister,  had  received  no  mail  for  us. 
We  chatted  with  him  for  awhile,  and  when  we  left, 
it  was  with  the  opinion  that  the  Minister  was  a man 
with  whom  secrets  of  State  might  very  safely  be 
deposited. 

Our  way  back  to  Lupone’s  took  us  past  the  “ White 
House  ” of  Nicaragua,  a square  building  of  the  usual 
two  stories,  which  might  have  been  the  residence  of 
any  fairly  prosperous  citizen,  and  was  far  less  imposing 
in  appearance  than  the  quarters  of  Mr.  Jefferson.  It 
was  set  almost  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  the 
only  official  touch  was  the  slouchy  sentry  pacing  up  and 
down  the  hallway  and  the  throng  of  waiting  people, 
which  seemed  to  be  drawn  from  all  classes  of  the 
citizenry,  in  the  waiting-room.  Chamorro,  the  President, 
to  whom  I had  a letter  of  introduction,  is  the  veteran 
revolutionist  of  Central  America,  and  something  of  the 
informality  of  his  twenty  years  of  camp-life  seems  to 
mark  his  official  existence. 

In  the  hotel  we  became  better  acquainted  with  the 
waiter,  an  individual  clad  in  orthodox  white  jacket  to 
the  belt,  but  strikingly  Nicaraguan  of  cascading  trousers- 
legs  and  broad  bare  feet,  and  with  divers  Americans  and 
Britons  visiting  or  residing  in  the  capital.  For  Lupone’s 
is  the  gathering-place  of  the  foreign  colony ; those 


126 


MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 


who  do  not  live  beneath  its  roof  make  daily  pilgrimage 
to  the  long  table  set  under  the  trees  outside  the  bar  door. 

Here  it  was  that  first  we  encountered — in  Central 
America,  I mean — the  Anglo-Saxon  dread  of  losing 
caste.  It  was  a British  mining-man  who,  upon  learning 
that  we  planned  the  “ long  traverse  ” from  Managua 
to  Guatemala,  inquired  politely  whether  we  would  ride 
horses  or  mules. 

“ Neither,”  replied  Norm,  with  politeness  equalling 
that  of  the  questioner.  “ We  intend  to  walk — go  a 'pie.” 
“ You’re  going  to — walk  ! ” 

Norm  grunted  assent. 

“ But,  surely,”  said  our  new  acquaintance,  “ you’ll 
have  three  or  four  mozos  to  carry  your  luggage  ? ” 

He  could  understand  that,  Americans  being  so 
different  in  view-point  from  their  cousins  across  the 
water,  we  might  be  possessed  by  an  insane  fancy  to  ride 
Shanks’s  mare  over  jungle-  and  mountain-trails ; and  so 
long  as  we  had  a few  natives  to  boss,  the  dignity  of  the 
race  would  in  some  degree  be  protected. 

“ Nary  mozo,”  Norm  assured  him  with  a grin.  “ What 
we’ll  take  with  us  can  be  packed  in  a hammock-roll  and 
carried  over  the  shoulder.  So  why  worry  with  mozos  ? ” 
“ But,  my  dear  chaps  ! ” he  protested.  “ What  will 
the  natives  think  ? Imagine  it ! A white  man  on  foot 
and  carrying  his  baggage  ! Why — why,  it  will  destroy 
the  idea  we  have  worked  for  years  to  impress  upon 
them,  that  of  the  superiority  of  the  white  man  to  the 
native.  WThy — why,  it’s  unthinkable  ! Have  you  chaps 
no  idea  of  caste  ? ” 

Norm  tried  to  explain  to  him  our  entire  indifference 
to  the  silent  opinion  of,  and  complete  ability  to  deal 
sharply  and  efficiently  with  the  spoken  contempt  from, 
any  native  or  natives.  But  I fear  his  efforts  were  in 


THE  FOREIGN  COLONY 


127 


vain.  While  the  others  about  the  table  smiled  behind 
their  hands,  the  mining-man  sputtered  and  choked 
with  his  overwhelming  emotion  until  he  was  forced  to 
leave  the  company.  Until  our  departure  from  Managua 
he  withdrew  the  hem  of  his  garments,  so  to  say,  from 
possible  contamination  by  association  with  men  who 
walked. 

But  very  few  of  the  foreign  colony — not  one  per  cent, 
of  it — were  asses.  There  were  men  sitting  around  that 
long  table  who  had  made — and  lost — a half-dozen 
fortunes  each  by  methods  that  would  read  more 
interestingly  than  fiction,  could  they  be  chronicled. 
There  were  others  who  had  been  the  trusted  advisers 
of  half  the  revolutionists  of  Central  America  ; men 
who  had  reached  Guatemala  by  the  Old  Trail  from 
Arizona  to  Vado  Ancho  on  their  own  feet ; oil-scouts 
and  mining-engineers  to  whom  the  world  was  their 
back-yard ; timber-cruisers  and  out-and-out  seed  of 
Ishmael  who  couldn’t  “ stay  put  ” in  one  place  ; and 
from  these  we  had  nothing  but  friendly  advice  and 
sympathetic  interest.  They  were  “ real  people,”  in 
the  phrase  of  the  south-west. 

All  this  region  possessed  a dual  fascination  for  me. 
Managua  was  not  only  the  capital  of  Nicaragua,  a city 
of  thirty-five  thousand  anti-whites  set  down  upon  the 
brown,  dusty  plain  that  looked  like  a cake  of  chocolate 
on  a lettuce-leaf.  It  was  also  part  of  the  stage  on 
which  moved  that  American  whose  personality  and 
exploits  were  such  that  they  must  live  so  long  as  boys 
— and  men  ! — like  to  hear  of  deeds  of  derring-do. 

William  Walker,  miscalled  “ filibuster  ” ; Walker  the 
American  President  of  Nicaragua  ; Walker  the  shrewdest 
pro-slavery  advocate  of  his  generation  ; Walker  the 
unafraid ! Yet  the  encyclopaedias  dismiss  him,  his 


128 


MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 


achievements  and  his  gallant  end  with  a scant  para- 
graph, to  hurry  on  to  the  biography  of  some  smug 
stay-at-home  who,  perchance,  wrote  a treatise  on 
lawn-tennis.  But  if  the  history-books  give  him  very 
little  space,  his  name  is  still  one  to  conjure  with  in 
Nicaragua  and  Honduras  ; it  is  as  well  known  there  as 
Washington's  in  the  United  States.  This  is  in  no  way 
intended  as  a comparison  between  the  characters  of 
the  two,  but  merely  as  illustration  of  the  mark  that 
Walker  the  lawyer-editor-doctor-empire-seeker,  leader 
of  forlorn  hopes  almost  without  a peer,  made  upon  the 
people  of  an  alien  race. 

It  is  as  futile  now  to  discuss  the  possible  fate  of  the 
slave-monarchy  Walker  attempted  to  set  up  in  Central 
America  as  to  speculate  concerning  the  result  if  the 
South  had  won  the  Civil  War.  But,  however  mistaken 
the  man  may  have  been,  he  possessed  not  only  the 
courage  of  his  convictions,  but  an  audacity  and  faith 
in  his  star  truly  magnificent. 

With  a handful  of  blue-shirted,  devil-may-care 
Americans  he  made  himself  President  of  Nicaragua  and, 
incidentally,  gave  them  the  fairest  government  they 
had  ever  known.  Doubtless  he  would  have  fulfilled  his 
ambition  to  conquer  the  whole  of  Central  America  had 
it  not  been  for  the  money-grabbing  capitalists  and 
weak-kneed  politicians  of  his  own  land.  If  he  had 
succeeded  in  merging  these  discordant  units  into  a 
country  extending  from  Mexico  to  Panama,  as  was 
undoubtedly  his  plan,  it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  not 
have  resulted.  It  is  an  interesting,  if  useless,  specu- 
lation, and  certainly  no  American  has  reason  to  feel 
ashamed  of  his  “ filibustering  ” countryman. 

In  the  afternoon  of  our  first  day  in  the  capital,  while 
I wandered  through  the  market-place,  Norm  dickered 


SALE  OF  TWOPERCENT 


129 


with  Gunner  White  of  the  marine  detachment  for  the 
sale  of  Twopercent.  Finally  he  sold  the  sturdy  little 
nag,  with  saddle  and  bridle  and  garrapatas  and  all  else 
pertaining  to  the  trail-mate  of  Edna.  When  I tired  of 
wandering  through  the  collection  of  shops — too  modem 
to  be  of  interest — which  adjoined  the  big  market,  and 
went  back  to  Lupone’s,  I found  my  camarada  in  our 
room  with  an  intent  expression  and  a huge  roll  of 
cordoba  billetes  which  he  was  endeavouring  to  count. 
American  saddlery  is  rare  in  the  tropics  and  we  found 
ourselves  possessed  of  a profit  on  our  sales ! 

After  comida  we  joined  the  dozen  or  more  men  at 
the  long  table  outside  the  bar  door.  The  talk  turned  to 
Walker  and  to  later  adventurers  in  the  Land  of  the 
Lotus.  One  member  of  the  group  had  once  been 
accused  of  tearing  up  the  Nicaraguan  flag — a trumped-up 
story  to  furnish  excuse  for  an  outbreak — and  the 
accusation  precipitated  the  revolution  which  resulted 
in  the  overthrow  of  the  dictator  Zelaya  and  the  American 
intervention  of  1912. 

The  effects  of  American  intervention  are  very  per- 
ceptible. The  finances  of  the  country  are  regulated  by 
American  bankers,  who  control  the  national  bank  and 
issue  beautifully  engraved  banknotes ; the  national 
debt  is  held  by  New  York  financiers,  who  govern 
customs  collections  in  the  ports.  A detachment  of 
American  marines,  one  hundred  and  fifty  in  number,  keep 
undesired  peace  in  the  country. 

An  American  told  us,  only  half- jestingly,  that  when 
signs  of  unrest  become  apparent  among  the  people,  the 
marines  have  only  to  hold  target-practice  to  check  the 
natives’  natural  and  inherent  impulse  toward  outbreak. 
The  Nicaraguenses  come,  watch  the  marines  qualify  as 
expert  riflemen  and  pistol-shots,  then  go  thoughtfully 
9 


130  MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 

home  and  mournfully  pack  away  their  weapons  for  the 
time. 

Regrettable  as  it  may  seem  that  the  United  States  has 
to  dabble  in  the  affairs  of  a supposedly  sovereign  country, 
there  is  no  doubt  but  that  withdrawal  of  the  handful 
of  khaki-clad  policemen  would  be  followed  by  serious 
disorders.  The  Central  American  cannot  be  treated  as 
a grown-up  ; he  is  in  much  the  same  class  as  the  small 
boy  who  goes  upon  the  rampage  and  tears  up  everything 
in  sight  in  a frenzy  inexplicable  to  his  elders. 

Government,  to  the  Latin  American,  is  merely  the 
machine  for  rewarding  the  top- dog,  and  to  him  it  is 
perfectly  proper  to  overthrow  an  existing  regime  with 
thrilling  fireworks  for  no  other  reason  than  his  desire 
for  a slice  of  the  governmental  melon.  Some  day  the 
native  will  learn  how  to  organize  modem  political 
parties  which  will  take  turn  and  turn  about  at  mismanag- 
ing affairs,  to  the  profit  of  the  party-members.  Then 
the  ballot  will  replace  the  bullet  and  we  shall  see  among 
our  dusky  neighbours  replicas  of  all  the  famous  political 
institutions  of  the  United  States.  But  now,  continuous 
peace  bores  Manuel  and  his  friends  almost  to  distraction. 

It  is  foolish  to  speak  of  the  Latin  American  as  if  his 
ideas  of  political  economy  were  the  same  as  ours.  The 
Nicaraguenses  are  a case  in  point : under  the  restraining 
influence  of  a handful  of  khaki-clad  marines  they  have — 
I almost  said  “ enjoyed,”  but  that  isn’t  the  proper  word 
— had  a peaceful  existence  for  nearly  eight  years. 
Zelaya’s  extortions  from  rich  and  poor  by  means  of 
red-pepper  injections  and  merciless  floggings  are  no 
longer  possible,  yet  on  every  hand  one  hears  discontented 
mutterings  from  the  native,  directed  at  the  “ greedy 
white  men  ” who  have  “ seized  ” the  country. 

In  my  humble  opinion  Nicaragua  would  be  another 


THE  CAMPO  DEL  MARTE 


131 


Mexico  were  the  marines  withdrawn.  If  we  had  taken 
similar  decided  steps  to  protect  American  lives  and  prop- 
erty immediately  south  of  the  Rio  Grande  there  would 
be  no  necessity  for  swallowing  so  many  pointed  insults,  no 
reason  for  the  transmission  of  polite  diplomatic  notes  to 
decorate  the  waste-paper  baskets  of  the  various  bandits 
who  have  taken  turns  at  ruling  the  country.  However,  I 
am  prejudiced  in  this  matter — like  most  of  the  Americans 
who  have  lived  along  the  Texas  border  since  1910. 

The  Campo  del  Marte  (Field  of  War)  in  Managua  is  a 
large,  walled  parade  ground,  with  towers  for  machine- 
guns  commanding  the  streets  leading  into  the  town. 
The  barracks,  a battlemented  structure,  is  one  of  the 
most  ornamental  buildings  in  all  of  Nicaragua.  We 
found  the  Nicaraguan  garrison  occupying  it  jointly 
with  the  detachment  of  American  marines. 

Gunner  White  brought  out  the  collection  of  ancient 
pottery  and  idols  which  is  his  hobby,  with  photographs 
of  ancient  rock-paintings  secured  from  cliffs  at  risk  of 
his  neck.  Some  of  the  pottery  was  wonderfully  smooth 
and  well  shaped,  when  one  remembers  that  it  dated 
from  the  ancient  Mayas,  and  was  manufactured  by  these 
primitive  people  long  before  the  days  of  Cortez's  con- 
quest of  Mexico.  Among  the  collection  we  found  water- 
jars  and  cooking-pans  and,  most  interesting  of  all,  squat, 
hideous  idols  from  the  Island  of  Ometepe,  in  the  Gran 
Lago. 

A brisk  wind  had  sprung  up  and  as  we  made  our  way 
back  to  Lupone’s  the  dust  was  blowing  in  fantastic  clouds 
and  whirling  figures  higher  than  the  red-tiled  roofs  of 
the  city.  The  people  who  were  on  the  streets  were  hurry- 
ing homeward  with  sleeve  or  mantilla  over  mouth  and 
nostrils.  This  fear  of  breathing  in  the  dust  seems  to  be 
universal  among  the  Latinized  Americans ; at  least, 


132 


MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 


I have  observed  it  in  the  peoples  of  all  the  countries 
from  Mexico  to  Panama. 

Inquiry  as  to  the  reason  for  their  dread  of  the  dusty 
breeze  and  of  night  air  brings  merely  a shrug  and  the 
grunt,  “ ’sta  malo”  (“it  is  bad”),  as  answer  to  the 
question. 

As  we  sat  in  the  dining-room  that  evening  a tall,  black- 
clad  figure  came  in  and  we  rose  to  give  joyous  greeting 
to  Jerry  Kingsbury,  whom  we  had  met  and  left  in  San 
Jose  de  Costa  Rica.  After  the  meal  we  drifted  out,  as 
usual,  to  the  long  table  beneath  the  trees. 

Of  all  the  cities  of  Central  America,  our  most  pleasant 
memories — in  spite  of  the  surliness  of  the  townspeople — 
are  of  Managua.  It  was  the  only  one  in  which  we  really 
wished  to  linger.  The  friendly  chats  in  the  forenoons, 
when  we  lounged  comfortably  in  the  shady  garden  over 
iced  limon'adas  and  watched  the  people  passing  the 
hotel ; the  hour  preceding  “ breakfast,”  when  all  the 
foreigners  in  the  capital  gathered  in  this  spot  to  laugh 
and  exchange  anecdotes  of  the  day’s  events  and  the 
poker-dice  went  the  rounds  of  the  table  as  we  shook  for 
drinks  ; it  was  all  like  the  reunion  of  a big,  congenial 
family.  I’m  willing  to  venture  the  assertion  that — 
among  the  Americans,  at  least ; the  sober-minded 
English  are  more  bound  by  custom — most  of  the  business 
of  the  foreign  colony  was  transacted  at  the  long  table 
under  the  trees,  and  the  habit  reacted  to  the  benefit 
both  of  Lupone  and  the  business. 

But  the  evenings  were  the  best.  Then,  while  some 
distant  band  droned  on  interminably,  we  sat  in  velvety 
darkness  which  was  intensified  rather  than  lightened 
by  the  feeble  electrics  within  the  hotel,  and  our  best 
stories  came  out  for  the  edification  of  the  company, 
while  ice  tinkled  in  the  long  glasses. 


133 


MOSQUITOES  DE  LUXE 

It  was  at  these  evening  sessions  that  the  “ true 
inwardness  ” of  many  incidents  came  out,  the  queer 
tricks  and  turns  of  thought  of  the  native,  which  result 
in  actions  inexplicable  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  unfamiliar 
with  the  tropics,  but  entirely  natural,  if  not  actually 
inevitable,  to  the  Latin.  In  that  atmosphere  of  languor- 
ous content  many  an  event  which  had  puzzled  the 
diplomats  of  various  nations  was  explained  by  men  who 
had  been  eye-witnesses  of,  if  not  actors  in,  the  play. 

The  principal  drawback  to  residence  in  Managua,  if 
one  discounts  the  dust-storms,  is  the  mosquito.  To  my 
mind  these  pests  overshadow  the  fervid  midday  heat,  the 
high,  dust-laden  winds,  the  dearth  of  amusements  of 
civilized  variety,  even  the  surliness  of  the  native. 

Each  night  when  we  retired  it  was  in  the  manner  of  a 
retreating  army.  We  sought  our  room,  snapped  on  the 
light  for  a brief  instant  to  locate  the  beds,  then  snapped 
it  off  and  leaped  as  quickly  as  possible  beneath  the  can- 
opy of  mosquito-netting,  there  to  undress  while  the 
hungry,  singing  legions  tried  every  inch  of  the  barrier 
in  search  of  an  entrance. 

The  netting  on  my  bed  was  changed  the  day  after 
our  arrival,  in  the  interest  of  cleanliness,  I presume. 
But  the  clean  canopy  was  ragged.  Some  of  the  holes 
had  been  darned,  but  near  the  top  of  the  dome,  where  it 
was  suspended  from  the  ceiling  by  a cord,  was  a rent  an 
inch  or  so  in  diameter.  On  the  first  night  I slept  beneath 
it  I was  besieged  by  a jubilant,  chanting  army,  and  only 
by  smothering  myself  beneath  the  sheet  could  I escape 
their  onslaught. 

“ Oh,  the  mosquitares  aren’t  bad  in  Managua,”  said 
the  Old-Timer  one  evening.  “ You  should  see  ’em 
around  Chinandega  in  the  rainy  season  ! 

“ Why,  I remember  that  a^traveller  was  once  riding 


134  MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 

along  the  trail  toward  Leon,  and  near  a little  cabin  beside 
the  road  he  had  to  halt,  for  he  saw  a dozen  mosquitoes 
coming  for  him  hellbent.  Now,  those  birds  are  as  big 
as  cabbages,  with  beaks  a foot  long,  so  this  gunie  looked 
around  for  shelter. 

“ At  the  side  of  the  cabin  was  a big,  old-fashioned 
copper  sugar-kettle  some  four  feet  in  diameter  by  three 
and  a half  deep.  He  jumped  off  his  mule  and  pulled  the 
kettle  over  him. 

“ Well,  gentlemen,  those  infernal  hairpins  clustered 

about  the  kettle,  trying  their est  to  pull  it  off  the 

chap.  When  they  couldn’t  handle  it  that  way,  they 
poked  their  beaks  under  the  edge  and  tried  to  spear  him. 
The  fello’  had  a rock  in  his  hand  and  every  time  a beak 
appeared  he  smashed  it  against  the  lip  of  the  kettle — 
just  cemented  it  to  the  lip,  d’you  see.  He  did  this 
twelve  times  and  those  roosters,  the  twelve  of  ’em, 
were  just  wriggling  with  agony.” 

“ Then  what  happened  ? ” inquired  the  Young-Man- 
Just-Come-Down. 

The  Old-Timer  rose,  drained  his  glass  and  yawned 
ostentatiously.  He  didn’t  fancy  the  Young  Man  over- 
much, anyway. 

“Oh,  the  twelve  of  ’em  flew  away  with  the  sugar- 
kettle,”  he  drawled. 

Wednesday  morning  after  coffee  and  pan  dulce  we 
attempted  to  settle  our  score.  But,  like  everything  else 
in  the  tropics,  this  is  a detail  requiring  mature  delibera- 
tion, a ceremony  not  without  a certain  dignified  leisure- 
liness. The  clerk  requested  us  to  return  in  the  afternoon, 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  we  drew  him  from  his  shell 
of  hauteur  with  the  information  that  our  train  left  at 
ten  o’clock. 

“ Then,  why  the  devil  don’t  you  wait  until  ten  ? ” 


READY  FOR  THE  LONG  TRAVERSE  135 


said  the  clerk’s  injured  expression  as  plainly  as  any 
words  could  have  done. 

We  had  a round  of  errands  to  occupy  the  hours  until 
train-time.  There  were  friends  to  bid  good-bye,  pur- 
chases to  be  made,  money  to  exchange.  We  went  first 
to  the  marine-camp  to  give  adios  to  our  acquaintances 
there,  then  stopped  at  a bank.  Here  we  found  that, 
although  Nicaraguan  money  is  “ the  same  as  American,” 
the  baokers  prefer  the  portrait  of  George  Washington  or 
some  other  well-known  character  from  our  gallery  of 
famous  men  to  that  of  a Nicaraguan  patriot  upon  a bill. 
In  short,  the  banks  had  no  American  banknotes  to 
spare  for  strangers. 

At  the  general  merchandise  shop  of  a canny  Scot  we 
received  American  gold- certificates  in  exchange  for  our 
bundle  of  cordobas,  and  were  charged  only  ten  per  cent, 
for  the  service.  Then,  in  the  market-place,  we  looked 
for  hammocks. 

On  the  steamer  going  to  New  Orleans  I found  the  work 
of  another  tropical  traveller,  in  which  mention  is  made  of 
purchasing  a hammock  in  Guatemala  City  for  “ a few 
cents.”  Either  the  Guatemalan  hammock  is  inferior, 
vastly,  to  the  Nicaraguan  article  or  the  wriggling 
tentacles  of  Business  have  rendered  the  merchants  of 
Nicaragua  sharper  hands  at  bargaining.  Our  hamacas, 
with  clews,  stood  us  four  dollars  gold  apiece,  and  the 
Chinaman  seemed  utterly  indifferent  about  their  sale. 

Our  account  was  almost  closed  when  we  got  back  to 
the  hotel.  We  waited  at  the  desk  until  the  clerk  had 
procured  the  signature  of  Senor  Lupone  himself  beneath 
the  “ cancelado  ” which  is  the  Spanish  equivalent  of 
“ paid,”  then  said  good-bye  hastily  to  our  friends  of 
the  long  table  and  bundled  our  packages  into  the 
rickety  coche  at  the  door. 


136 


MANAGUAN  IDLINGS 


The  driver  lashed  his  nags  madly  and  we  were  ofi  for 
the  railway  station  at  a furious  walk.  The  usual 
shouting,  gesticulating  throng  surged  and  scrambled 
about  the  ticket- window,  and  when  mere  Yanques 
objected  mildly  to  being  thrust  aside  and  trampled 
upon,  many  were  the  black  scowls  upon  the  dusky 
faces. 

But  the  attitude  of  the  people  we  had  met,  both  on 
the  road  and  in  the  cities,  had  become  so  familiar  to  us 
that  we  paid  very  little  heed  to  the  frigidity  of  our 
greeting.  So  Norm  brought  his  wide  shoulders  and 
weaving  elbows  into  play  and  penetrated  the  crowd  as 
a boring-machine  enters  soft  earth.  When  he  had 
brought  back  our  tickets  we  strolled  into  the  Chinandega 
train. 


CHAPTER  VI 


JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


The  Chinandega  Train — Hatred  of  White  Faces — Halt  at 
Leon — A Chinandegan  Tenor — Battling  Mosquito  Armies — 
Tortilla  Making  and  History — -On  Meeting  a “ Tigre  ” — 
Hacienda  Jot£  and  Hospitality — Red-tape  at  Playa  Grande — 
“Gasolina”  of  Deliverance. 


rj^H 


E Central  American  has  taken  the  railway  to 
his  heart.  It  is  as  familiar  to  him  nowadays  as 


the  lowly  mule,  and  he  rides  upon  it,  I do 
believe,  more  for  recreation  than  anything  else.  In  a 
land  where  time  is  least  important  of  many  unimportant 
elements,  the  native  turns  up  his  nose  scornfully  at  the 
offer  of  a ten-mile  ride  in  an  ox-cart.  Instead,  he 
spends  hard-got  centavos  for  the  ticket  which  permits 
him  to  squat  in  the  crowded  aisle  of  a narrow-gauge 
coach  for  the  same  trip. 

We  found  the  coaches  of  our  train  crowded  when  we 
entered.  Norm  dropped  into  a seat  beside  a fat, 
middle-aged  woman,  but  I could  get  sitting-room  only 
by  removing  from  a cushion  the  possessions  of  a young, 
brazen-faced  Nicaraguense  and  tossing  them  upon  the 
luggage-rack  overhead — where  they  belonged. 

The  hombre  frowned  at  me  heavily,  and  ostentatiously 
fingered  his  revolver-butt.  Then  Norm  turned  and — 
playing  up  nobly — looked  at  the  cheap,  nickel-plated 
weapon,  and  snickered.  The  youth  began  to  swell 
with  visible  indignation,  much  to  the  wicked  delight 

137 


138  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


of  my  camarada.  Time  after  time  he  repeated  the 
scene,  each  time  with  the  same  result. 

The  north-bound  train  traversed  a flat,  sunbaked, 
utterly  arid  pais  upon  which  grew — for  all  the  world 
like  bristles  upon  a brown  pig’s  back — scrubby,  dust- 
coated  thorn-bush.  Here  and  there,  near  the  railway, 
were  tiny  patches  of  bananas,  maize,  or  feeble-looking 
sugarcane,  watered  by  shallow  wells.  But  after  passing 
Lake  Asososca,  a dark-blue,  irregularly  shaped  body  of 
water  lying  in  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  the 
cultivated  areas  were  few.  Lean  cattle  ranged  apa- 
thetically upon  the  chocolate-coloured  plain,  herded  by 
tattered  savoneras  on  tiny  ponies. 

At  noon  we  pulled  into  a little  station,  and  the  cus- 
tomary procession  of  women  and  children  entered  the 
coaches  with  their  trays  of  lottery  tickets,  greasy  food 
and  bottles  of  lukewarm  cerveze,  the  flat,  sweetish  native 
beer.  Two  small  pies  of  mysterious  content,  purchased 
from  the  cleanest-seeming  little  girl  for  a real,  with 
cakes  of  chocolate  brought  with  us  from  the  capital, 
made  our  midday  meal. 

In  early  afternoon  we  got  our  first  glimpse  of  the 
volcano  Momotombo,  with  Momotombita — “ Little 
Momotombo  ” — near-by.  At  the  distance  from  which 

we  stared  they  seemed  part  of  a line  of  volcanoes 
extending  from  Viejo  to  Momotombita  all  along  our 
right.  Momotombo  appeared  as  an  almost  perfect 
cone,  rising  gently  from  an  undulating  base,  and  in  the 
clear  air  a lazy  crown  of  white  vapour  floated  upward 
so  slowly  as  to  seem  not  to  move.  The  other  passengers 
seemed  too  familiar  with  the  sight  to  glance  that  way, 
but  until  the  train  twisted  the  peaks  out  of  sight  we 
craned  our  necks  and  watched. 

At  Leon  the  train  halted  for  twenty  minutes  and 


THE  CHINANDEGA  TRAIN 


139 


several  passengers  disembarked,  to  be  replaced  by 
others  bound  for  Chinandega  and  Corinto.  We  noted 
a lightening  in  the  swarthy  colouring  of  the  people, 
but  failed  to  observe  any  lessening  of  the  hostility  with 
which  we  were  regarded.  Even  the  slovenly  woman 
who  sold  us  glasses  of  tamarinda,  a sickeningly  sweet, 
insipid  concoction  of  tamarind- juice  and  doubtful 
water,  scowled  as  she  handed  the  glasses  up  to  us, 
scowled  as  we  drank  and  when  we  paid,  then  spat  as 
she  tossed  the  tumblers  into  a wash-bucket  with  an 
emphasis  that  showed  her  opinion  of  the  white 
race. 

Among  the  girls  and  younger  women  on  the  train 
were  some  of  the  most  beautiful  I have  ever  seen. 
They  resembled — and  rivalled — the  hapi  haoli  girls  of 
Honolulu.  They  were  as  fair  of  complexion  as  any 
daughter  of  our  own  land,  regular  of  features,  with 
blue-black  curly  hair  worn  in  a simple,  attractive  twist 
that  fell  to  the  waist,  or  an  equally  effective  coil  at  the 
nape  of  the  neck.  But  their  dark  eyes  held  no  pleasant- 
ness for  us  ! The  Leonista  is  noted  for  his  hatred  of 
white  men,  and  even  Norm  the  Heart-Wrecker  acknow- 
ledged defeat  when  his  most  admiring  glances  were 
ignored. 

As  we  sat  in  the  coach  and  stared  through  the  window 
at  the  town  of  Leon,  I experienced  a peculiar  sensation. 
There  were  we,  almost  within  sight  of  the  spot  where 
two  luckless  Americans,  machine-gunners  in  the  revo- 
lutionary army,  had  been  captured  but  little  more  than 
eight  years  before.  They  had  been  flayed  alive  and 
then  hacked  to  pieces  by  the  women  of  the  city,  and 
their  remains  devoured  by  the  half-wild  pigs  in  the 
streets. 

Perhaps  some  of  the  elderly  women  now  scowling  at 


140  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


us  had  wielded  a machete  that  bloody  day — quien  sabe  ? 
When  I looked  at  their  beady,  black  eyes  and  thin, 
grim  lips,  this  last  surmise  seemed  anything  but  improb- 
able. The  touch  of  the  big  Texas  six-gun  nestled  in 
its  holster  beneath  my  arm  was  as  grateful  in  that 
moment  as  the  handclasp  of  an  old,  tried  friend.  My 
reflections  bred  in  me  no  love  for  these  Indian-featured 
men  and  women,  with  their  malevolent  glances  in  our 
direction. 

Past  Leon  the  country  was  more  thickly  settled. 
There  were  larger  areas  of  cultivation,  but  still  the 
evidences  of  a long,  blazing  summer  season  gave  the 
landscape  a dreariness  very  different  from  the  aspect 
of  the  broad,  green  fields  and  rank,  verdant  jungles  of 
Southern  Nicaragua  and  of  Costa  Rica. 

We  pulled  into  the  station  at  Chinandega  in  late 
afternoon  after  our  ninety- mile  journey.  There  was  no 
lodging-place  near-by,  so  we  followed  a business-like 
muchacho  through  a mile  of  hot,  dusty  streets  to  the 
Hotel  Iberico.  The  landlady  was  in  the  patio  with  her 
daughter  and  a well-dressed  man  of  middle  age,  and 
they  seemed  annoyed  at  our  coming.  But  a slovenly 
“ Mary  Ann  ” came  from  the  kitchen  and  showed  us  to 
a room,  and  pointed  silently  across  the  patio  to  where 
a home-made  sign  indicated  the  bathroom. 

Damp-haired,  smooth-chinned,  in  clean  clothing  and 
so  at  peace  with  all  the  world — even  Nicaragua — we 
worked  at  notes  and  maps  and  the  sorting  of  our  outfits. 
Then  through  the  open  street  door  came  such  a burst 
of  melody  as  we  had  never  heard  in  these  lands.  Across 
the  blazing,  dusty  street  a Colorado  maduro-complexioned 
youth  was  loading  sacks  of  maize-ears  into  an  ox-cart. 
Apparently,  trabajo  (for  which  the  English  synonyms 
are  work,  labour,  toil,  trouble  !)  had  for  him  no  such 


A CHINANDEGAN  TENOR  141 

terrors  as  for  the  remainder  of  Chinandega’s  siesta-mg 
inhabitants ; he  was  singing  blithely  enough. 

The  ringing,  boyish  tenor  drew  us  from  maps  and 
notes  to  listen  to  the  simple  little  ballad  about  a 
caballero  of  Lima  who  loved  a snow-white  senorita.  But 
he  took  the  plaintive  cadences  of  the  cancidn  amor  and 
so  embellished  them  with  bird-like  trills  and  a lilting 
rhythm  that  one  yearned  to  commission  him  to  rewrite 
all  the  mournful  Spanish  music  of  the  Southland. 

“ Mary  Ann  ” called  us  to  comida  in  the  patio,  where 
we  ate  with  dapper  young  clerks  from  the  modernized 
shops,  who  looked  superciliously  at  our  boots  and  khakis. 
From  the  array  of  food  upon  the  table,  it  seemed  certain 
that  the  High  Cost  of  Living  had  skipped  this  section 
of  Nicaragua  on  its  globe-girdling  journey.  There  was 
soup,  fried  eggs,  rice  and  chilis,  chicken  fricassee,  black 
bean-paste,  fried  bananas,  cottage  cheese,  tortillas, 
white  bread  and  delicious  preserved  oranges  and  cafe 
negro.  And  room  and  board  at  the  Iberico,  even  at 
tourist-rates,  was  but  one  dollar  per  day. 

When  we  had  eaten  we  resumed  our  work  of  arranging 
the  packs  we  intended  to  carry  during  the  remainder  of 
our  journey.  Our  possessions  were  divided  as  evenly 
as  possible  and  each  of  us  enclosed  his  share  in  the  seat 
of  a spare  pair  of  trousers.  A drawstring  through  the 
belt-loops  at  the  waist  made  a bag  of  the  seat,  while  the 
legs,  tied  to  the  waistband  by  their  bottoms,  formed  the 
shoulder-straps.  Except  only  the  blanket-roll,  which 
is  my  favourite,  the  “ overalls-pack  ” is  the  most 
comfortable  rucksack  that  I have  ever  shouldered,  and 
in  my  day  I have  swung  up  several  styles  of  war-bag. 
When  complete,  our  burdens  weighed  a fraction  under 
eighteen  pounds  apiece,  and  this  weight  included 
hammocks  and  mosquito  bars.  Norm  was  to  carry 


142  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

the  kodak  at  his  belt,  while  I packed  the  joint 
canteen. 

Had  we  risen  at  cockcrow  on  our  first  morning  in 
Chinandega  our  rest  would  have  been  short  indeed,  for 
at  midnight  a belligerent  cockerel  in  the  hotel  patio  sent 
forth  his  brazen  challenge.  It  was  answered  by  every 
rooster  in  town  and  by  most  of  the  dogs,  from  the  sound. 
But  we  merely  rolled  over  on  the  comfortable  canvas 
cots  and  slept  until  daybreak.  After  breakfast  we 
strolled  townward. 

Many  of  the  houses  of  Chinandega  show  a quaint, 
Moorish  note  in  their  architecture.  Some  of  the  white- 
washed, one-story  casas  have  barred  windows  projecting 
from  the  house- wall  like  those  I had  seen  pictured  in  old 
histories  of  Granada.  Save  only  the  railway  station,  it 
might  have  been  a drowsing,  peaceful  town  of  Old  Spain. 

As  we  sauntered  through  the  quiet  streets,  breathing 
in  the  coolness  of  the  tropic  morning,  filled  with  deep 
content  at  merely  being  alive  and  on  the  trail,  rather  than 
in  the  bustle  and  clamour  of  an  American  city,  we  began 
to  attract  a following.  From  doorway,  alley-mouth 
and  mothers’  skirts  came  the  children,  until  we  marched 
at  the  head  of  a miniature  army.  It  was  the  kodak  that 
drew  them.  “ Camara  ! Camara  ! ” they  whispered  to 
one  another,  and  every  time  Norm  halted  to  snap  a 
picture  all  the  children  in  buzzing  chorus  explained 
gravely  to  each  other  just  why  and  how  he  did  it. 

We  made  diligent  inquiry  as  to  the  trails  out  of  Chinan- 
dega and  received  different  advice  from  each  hombre  we 
accosted.  It  seemed  to  be  a point  of  honour  with  the 
population  to  disagree  with  one  another.  If  Pedro 
Gomez  had  advised  us  to  head  for  Tempisque,  then 
Antonio  Garcia  was  certain  we  had  best  turn  toward 
Playa  Grande.  But  all  were  agreed  that  Honduras 


WE  SET  OUT  FOR  EL  VIEJO 


143 


was  but  an  armed  camp,  in  its  southern  part,  and  would 
afford  no  opportunity  for  unimpeded  wandering  such  as 
we  desired.  Progress  would  be  a march  from  one  rebel 
camp  to  another,  with  the  doubtful  protection  of  a mili- 
tary escort — for  which  we  would  pay  ! 

So  we  eliminated  the  “ land  of  depths  ” from  our 
itinerary  and  decided  to  strike  out  for  Playa  Grande, 
there  to  take  passage  on  the  weekly  launch  for  La  Union, 
Salvador.  But  by  the  time  we  had  collected  enough 
data  to  permit  our  departure,  it  was  nearly  sundown. 

Our  landlord  desired  our  room  for  friends  who  had  just 
arrived,  and  presented  us  with  our  bill.  I explained  to 
him  that  we  had  no  intention  of  moving  before  the 
morrow,  but  he  insisted  that  he  had  been  informed  that 
we  would  leave  that  day.  We  told  him  that  it  was  now 
too  late  to  start  for  El  Viejo,  three  leagues  distant,  but  in 
this  he  wasn’t  interested.  He  could  rent  our  room  and 
would  be  pleased  to  see  our  backs. 

We  assumed  a “ determined  to  stay  ” expression,  in 
the  face  of  his  repeated  protests,  and  finally  were  given 
comida.  But  the  “ welcome  ” sign  on  the  Iberico  door- 
mat was  turned  face-down  during  the  remainder  of  the 
evening.  Our  skins  were  thickening,  however,  so  we  ate 
placidly  and  well  and  retired  to  the  cuarto  entirely 
unworried  by  the  host’s  coolness  of  manner. 

Very  early  next  morning,  so  early  that  the  cook  had  not 
made  coffee,  we  paid  our  score  and  slipped  into  the  pack- 
straps,  our  “ caste  ” left  behind  us  with  discarded 
alforjas  on  the  floor,  and  set  our  for  El  Viejo.  We  had 
long  since  become  accustomed  to  rousing  fevered 
curiosity  in  the  native  mind,  but  apparently  white  men 
bearing  back-packs  were  the  greatest  novelty  in  this 
region,  for  as  we  passed  through  the  grey  streets  entire 
families  rushed  to  the  doors  to  see  us  out  of  sight. 


144  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

We  waded  the  muddy  stream  north  of  Chinandega 
and  strode  up  the  dusty  road,  now  filled  with  country- 
folk coming  in  to  market.  Horsemen,  farmers  driving 
their  oxen  in  from  the  potreros,  women  and  girls  with 
laden  baskets  on  their  heads,  all  stared  at  us  with 
the  expression  of  vacuous,  yet  subtly  hostile,  curiosity 
we  had  come  to  accept  as  the  peculiar  mark  of  the 
Nicaraguense  of  the  north,  whether  male  or  female. 

The  soft  road  between  the  brown-green  walls  of  scrub 
brought  us  in  an  hour  to  El  Viejo,  a heterogeneous  clutter 
of  pole-walled,  thatched  huts  affronting  the  landscape. 
Of  the  six  or  eight  houses  of  the  village,  four  of  them  had 
something  to  sell,  were  tiendas.  The  fat  mistress  of  the 
largest  lost  a shade  of  her  sullen  suspicion  at  sight  of  our 
roll  of  centavo  billetes , and,  when  we  had  bought  a dozen 
stony  little  rolls  and  two  bananas,  thawed  out  sufficiently 
to  inquire  our  destination.  She  was  greatly  surprised 
to  learn  that  we  intended  to  make  the  journey  to  Playa 
Grande  a pie,  but  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  the 
resigned  air  of  the  native  confronted  with  gringo 
eccentricity. 

A stupid-faced  boy  was  the  only  occupant  of  the  shack 
that  served  as  post  office.  After  a lengthy  explanation, 
we  drew  from  him  the  information  that  just  then  the 
post  office  had  no  stamps,  “ some  would  come  from  the 
capital  soon — perhaps  next  month.”  Defeated  here,  we 
were  turning  toward  the  out-trail  when  the  woman  of 
the  tienda  hailed  us.  She  had  guessed  our  errand — per- 
haps its  outcome — and  she  had  stamps,  three  of  them, 
which  she  would  sell  at  only  twice  their  face- value.  We 
submitted  to  the  extortion,  dropped  the  letter  into  the 
wooden  box  outside  the  post  office  and — so  far  as  we 
know — it  may  be  there  yet. 

The  trail,  after  chasing  its  tail  in  and  about  the  shacks 


A PEON  AND  HIS  FAMILY 


145 


of  El  Viejo,  finally  regained  a measure  of  dignity  and 
joined  the  linea  telegrdfico  on  the  northward  march  just 
outside  the  village.  White  men  had  been  before  us  ; we 
were  assured  of  this  when  we  passed  a group  of  ragged, 
dirty  urchins  and  heard  the  American  fighting-word 
shouted  after  us  as  we  went. 

It  was  an  arid,  dreary  land  over  which  we  tramped 
till  noon,  dust-coated,  practically  waterless,  with  but 
an  occasional  miserable  hut  beside  the  ragged  trail. 
Swarms  of  mosquitoes  and  black  flies  tormented  us  as  we 
walked  and  we  were  forced  to  keep  folded  handkerchiefs 
swinging  constantly  before  our  faces.  When  we  halted 
at  midday  to  eat  our  rolls  and  drain  the  canteen,  the 
insect  pests  grew  so  troublesome  that  we  slipped  into 
the  pack- straps  and  went  on  a mile  farther  to  where  a 
hut  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  jungle. 

Here  we  found  a woman  and  two  half-naked  children 
and  were  given  a gourdful  of  suspicious  water.  It  was 
too  hot  to  take  up  the  march  again ; not  a breath  of  air 
stirred  and  the  stony  earth  radiated  a heat  like  that 
from  a red-hot  furnace.  We  clung  to  such  thin  shade  as 
the  hut- wall  afforded  and  waited  for  afternoon.  As  we 
sprawled  there  the  'peon  who  was  head  of  the  family 
came  in  with  his  machete  under  his  arm,  ragged,  bare- 
footed, apathetic,  too  hopelessly  indifferent  to  engage  in 
the  most  casual  of  conversations. 

As  I looked  about  the  dirt-floored  interior  of  the  cabin, 
at  the  piled  stones  that  sheltered  the  cooking-fire — upon 
which  simmered  an  old  tin  pail  of  green  plantains,  the 
only  food  of  any  kind  in  the  place — at  the  children 
asprawl  among  the  flea-ridden  chuchos,  their  scrawny 
bodies  covered  with  festered  mosquito-bites,  at  the 
whole  squalid,  indescribably  dreary  scene,  I couldn’t 
help  comparing  this  family’s  lot  with  that  of  the  most 
10 


146  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


shiftless,  improvident  negro  family  I had  ever  seen  in 
my  native  Southland. 

These  people  are  the  slaves  of  their  environment, 
gripped  by  a primal  apathy  that  holds  young  and  old  alike. 
They  have  fertile  lands,  but  rather  than  scratch  the  sur- 
face and  plant  seed  they — to  employ  the  phrase  of  the 
hotel-keeper  at  Mazatlan — lie  in  the  shade  and  scratch 
their  empty  bellies. 

At  a larger  house  a mile  beyond  the  cabin  an  old 
woman  was  baking  tortillas.  For  three  centavos  she 
sold  us  two,  smoking-hot,  fully  a foot  in  width,  but  was 
horrified  that  we  expected  to  find  frijoles  (beans)  in  her 
poor  kitchen. 

It  is  watching  the  women  prepare  tortillas  that  one 
realizes  most  readily  the  narrow  space  separating  these 
people  from  the  Indians  the  Spaniards  enslaved.  The 
tortilla- stone  has  undergone  scarcely  a modification  in 
the  past  five  hundred  years. 

Imagine  a stone  table  two  feet  long  by  a foot  wide, 
three  or  four  inches  thick,  resting  upon  three  stumpy 
legs,  distinctly  concave  of  top  from  end  to  end.  Upon 
this  is  placed  the  hulled,  boiled  maize-kernel  and  re- 
duced to  a pulp  under  a stone-roller.  Hot  water  is 
added  and  once  more  the  pulp  is  rolled,  until  it  be- 
comes a sticky,  flexible  dough. 

As  the  woman  rolls  the  dough,  a shallow  iron  bowl, 
fourteen  to  eighteen  inches  across,  is  heating  upon  the 
open  fire.  When  this  bowl  is  smoking-hot  a small  piece 
of  dough,  patted  to  a thin,  flat  cake  by  a rotative  motion 
of  the  hands  held  against  the  breast,  is  placed  upon  the 
ungreased  surface  and  baked  to  a yellow-brown  colour. 

The  tortilla  is  never  salted.  Unless  one  not  only  orders 
salt,  but  stands  over  the  codnera  and  sees  it  mixed,  it  will 
come  to  the  table  as  flat  of  flavour  as  in  the  days  of  the 


TORTILLA  MAKING 


147 


conquistador es . Why  the  native,  who  adds  salt  to  other 
foods  with  apparent  relish,  insists  upon  having  his 
tortilla  unsalted,  is  a mystery  to  white  men.  The  cook 
says,  “ But,  senor,  our  fathers  used  no  salt,”  and  the 
matter  is  settled.  Except  for  its  unsalted  flavour,  the 
tortilla  is  not  at  all  unpalatable  ; Norm  preferred  them 
to  any  other  form  of  native  bread.  When  cold  they  will 
keep  indefinitely,  but — I would  rather  avoid  them  if 
more  than  a day  old,  in  the  interest  of  my  dentistry. 

We  tramped  on  and  on,  slapping  at  the  clouds  of  mos- 
quitoes and  black  flies  that  swarmed  about  us.  It  was 
impossible  for  me  to  tell  the  colour  of  Norm’s  khaki  shirt 
because  of  the  mosquitoes  stealing  a lift  upon  his  back 
and  shoulders  Sundown  came  and  still  Playa  Grande 
was  not  in  sight.  We  limped  on  through  the  twilight 
and  so  came  to  a well  where  a man  and  boy  were  filling 
a cattle- trough  made  from  a great  hollow  log.  We  sat 
down  beside  the  well  and  watched  them  for  a time.  A 
scrubby  little  pony  was  hitched  to  one  end  of  the  well- 
rope,  and  when  he  walked  away,  driven  by  the  boy,  the 
bucket  was  drawn  to  the  surface,  where  the  man  dumped 
it  into  the  trough. 

The  boy  told  us  that  we  must  turn  aside  from  this  trail 
and  follow  a narrow  path  leading  into  the  deep  jungle, 
now  a purple-and-grey  mystery  in  the  evening  haze. 
This  path,  the  boy  said  (for  the  man  refused  to  speak  at 
all),  led  to  Playa  Grande.  So  we  turned  into  the  scrub 
timber  and  in  ten  minutes  it  was  as  if  we  walked  alone 
upon  the  earth. 

Norm  sat  down  to  rebandage  his  blistered  feet,  so  I 
gained  nearly  two  hundred  yards  upon  him,  stepping 
carefully  in  the  dusky  trail  for  fear  of  snakes.  The 
branches  met  overhead,  for  the  path  we  followed  was 
barely  twenty  inches  wide.  I began  to  wonder  why  no 


148  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

sign  of  human  habitation  appeared  beforp  us  ; then  there 
came  a snarl  from  above  and  I leaped  back  instinctively, 
forgetting  the  pack  upon  my  shoulders  for  the  first 
time  that  afternoon.  My  gun  was  out  and  I fired  almost 
without  aiming,  flipped  back  the  hammer  and  fired  again, 
then  a third  time. 

A slim,  spotted  shape  came  to  the  ground  not  ten  feet 
ahead  of  where  I poised  on  tip-toe,  snarling  and  clawing 
up  the  leaves  for  an  instant,  then  lay  still.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life — and  in  that  chill  minute,  the  last  time, 
I hoped — I had  met  the  tigre,  or  jaguar,  of  Central 
America  face  to  face. 

Norm,  six-gun  in  one  hand  and  a boot  in  the  other, 
came  flying  up  the  trail,  prepared — if  one  might  judge 
by  his  expression  and  attitude — for  anything,  preferably 
the  worst.  We  prodded  the  carcass  with  a long 
stick,  to  be  sure  that  it  was  really  dead,  then  examined 
it  more  closely.  We  estimated  its  weight  as  a hundred 
pounds.  All  three  of  my  shots  had  struck ; one 
straight  through  the  skull  between  the  yellow-green 
eyes,  the  others  through  the  lungs.  The  soft-nosed 
bullet  had  mushroomed  upon  the  bone  and  the  back- 
head  was  torn  completely  out. 

It  was  too  dark  to  photograph  it  and  both  of  us  were 
too  weary  to  consider  skinning  the  brute,  so  we  dragged 
it  aside  and  went  on.  An  hour  later,  when  we  had 
almost  given  up  hope  of  finding  a house  and  were 
reconciling  ourselves  to  the  prospect  of  a foodless, 
waterless,  mosquito- tortured  night,  a calf  bleated 
somewhere  in  the  darkness  ahead  and  we  stumbled  out 
into  an  open  space.  The  low,  dark  bulk  of  a large 
house  was  before  us. 

An  apathetic  mozo  sprawled  in  a hammock  upon  the 
verandah,  apparently  oblivious  to  the  whining  legions 


HACIENDA  JOTE 


149 


which  swarmed  impartially  about  the  flaring  carbide 
torch  near-by  and  upon  his  leathery  hide.  He  lacked 
energy  to  reply  to  our  queries,  save  for  a grunting  “ No 
com'prendo  lngle-s”  (“Don’t  understand  English”),  in 
answer  to  my  best  Spanish  ! We  were  contemplating 
third- degree  methods  to  break  his  silence  when  from 
the  direction  of  the  corral  hastened  a tall,  thin  figure 
and  the  welcome  sound  of  English  smote  upon  our  ears. 

“ I ’clare  to  goodness  ! Ef  dey  ain’t  white  gen’l’mens  ! 
An’  walkin’ ! Come  into  de  house,  suhs.  I sure  is 
glad  to  see  some  white  folks.” 

So  were  we  made  acquainted  with  Jim  Burgess,  the 
British  Honduran  administrador , or  foreman,  of  Hacienda 
Jote.  When  our  hammocks  had  been  swung  for  us  in 
a corner  of  the  big  house,  Jim’s  wife,  who  had  been 
directing  culinary  operations  from  her  hammock,  set 
out  huge  gourds  of  cool  chicha,  the  fermented  juice  of 
pounded  maize,  pineapples  and  oranges. 

Comida,  eaten  from  spotless  china,  was  a civilized 
meal  of  beefsteaks,  fried  potatoes,  beans — white,  for  a 
marvel — and  white  bread ! When  the  barefooted 
serving- girl  had  cleared  the  table  the  Senora  Burgess, 
a comely,  grey-haired  woman,  far  superior  to  the  other 
Nicaraguensas  we  had  seen  of  late,  brought  in  a short, 
squat  bottle  and  three  glasses.  We  had  learned  the 
brotherhood-of-man  doctrine  thoroughly  by  this  time, 
so  we  drank  with  Jim  and  pronounced  it  excellent 
whisky. 

It  was  the  first  liquor  we  had  drunk — bar  only  the 
swallow  of  guaro  at  Guasimal — since  setting  foot  upon 
the  beach  at  Puntarenas.  We  wouldn’t  have  broken 
our  vow  of  abstinence  this  night  save  for  the  crying 
need  for  a bracer.  Alcohol  and  the  white  man  mix  in 
the  tropics  only  with  regret  to  the  latter,  especially  if 


150  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


there  is  strenuous  work  to  be  done.  But  certainly  with 
the  whisky  that  night  came  a more  rosy  outlook  upon 
Nicaragua.  The  huge  blisters  upon  our  weary  feet  were 
forgotten,  as  were  heat,  mosquitoes  and  the  surliness  of 
the  people. 

We  were  dog-tired,  for  not  yet  was  the  time  when 
a thirty-  or  forty-mile  hike  was  an  ordinary  day’s  work 
for  hardened  muscles.  The  gambollings  of  a tame 
peccary,  the  javelina,  or  wild  pig,  of  Central  America, 
roused  us  at  daybreak,  in  time  for  a breakfast  as  ample 
as  had  been  the  dinner  of  the  night  before. 

Jim  had  sent  a couple  of  mozos  the  night  before  to 
bring  in  the  tigre,  and  we  weighed  it  on  his  big  scales. 
Ninety-seven  pounds,  “ ni  mas  ni  memos,”  the  carcass 
weighed.  Jim,  who  had  a dozen  skins  about  the  house, 
and  regarded  a tigre  or  leon  hunt  as  part  of  his  duties, 
merely  said  that  it  was  as  big  a tigre  as  he  had  seen 
for  a year  or  two.  We  donated  the  skin  to  him,  for  we 
couldn’t  take  it  with  us. 

He  wouldn’t  hear  of  us  walking  on  to  Playa  Grande. 
He  had  seen  the  blisters  on  Norm’s  feet  and  he  informed 
us  that  in  the  potreros  were  horses  “ just  beggin’  to  be 
rid ! ” Two  caballos  were  saddled  for  us,  and  then 
with  Jim  and  Amelio,  the  cattle-foreman,  a stocky  little 
man  with  enormous  shock  of  black  hair,  a flowing 
moustache  and  dog-like  black  eyes,  we  set  out  through 
a short-cut  across  the  jungle-pastures  of  Jote,  for  Playa 
Grande. 

There  was  little  ground  for  comparison  of  this  Nicar- 
aguan-owned ranch,  with  its  dusty,  arid  land  and  scrawny 
cattle,  raised  not  for  beef  or  butter,  but  for  cheese 
production,  with  the  fertile  acres  of  Mojica.  Everything 
about  it  seemed  to  have  gone  to  seed  ; its  busiest 
scenes  carried  an  atmosphere  of  desolation,  like  that 


RED-TAPE  AT  PLAYA  GRANDE  151 


one  notices  in  a once-busy  mining-camp  left  behind  when 
the  vein  has  petered  out.  It  was  not  an  inspiriting 
ride. 

We  came  in  early  afternoon  to  the  tide-flats  of  the 
Playa  Grande,  a mile-wide  estuary  flowing  into  the 
Gulf  of  Fonseca.  Here  was  a single,  unpainted  wooden 
building  set  upon  a bit  of  high  ground  near  the  water, 
with  the  desolate  scrub- jungle  walling  it  about  on  the 
other  sides. 

“ Comandancia ” said  Jim  briefly  and  led  the  way  on 
his  tiny,  tiger-striped  mula. 

To  the  Comandante,  a little  man  clad  in  gingham 
shirt,  dungaree  trousers  and  rusty  panama  hat,  with 
nothing  military  about  him  except  his  mustachios,  Jim 
explained  that  we  desired  passage  in  the  weekly  gasolina- 
launch  which  ran  between  Tempisque — lying  upstream 
— to  La  Union.  The  Commandant  asked  to  see  our 
passports  and  permisos  de  embarque  (embarkation  per- 
mits) from  the  Prefecto  at  Chinandega,  necessary  before 
anyone  could  embark  in  a foreign-bound  craft. 

We  had  only  passports  and  so  informed  the  Com- 
mandant, whereupon  he  telephoned  the  office  of  the 
Prefecto  (the  comandancia , having  once  been  the  property 
of  Zelaya  the  Dictator,  was  connected  by  a single-line 
telephone  with  Chinandega,  which  worked — sometimes) 
for  instructions.  Ensued  a lengthy  conversation  con- 
cerning the  visas  on  our  passports,  our  acquaintances 
and  business  in  Nicaragua,  and  our  personal  appearance. 
When  the  Commandant  stated  that  our  passports  had  not 
been  signed  by  the  American  Minister  in  Managua,  he 
was  ordered  to  send  us  back  to  Chinandega  for  permisos 
de  embarque.  We  refused  to  go,  thereby  establishing  a 
deadlock. 

At  last  the  Commandant  asked  if  I would  speak  to 


152  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


the  clerk  in  the  Prefecto’s  office.  I took  the  receiver 
and  asked  if  the  clerk  understood  English. 

“ I spike  a veree  leetle,”  came  the  reply.  “ What 
you  want  ? ” 

“We  want  to  go  by  the  weekly  gasolina  to  La  Union, 
Salvador.  Our  passports  have  been  visaed  by  the 
Nicaraguan,  Honduran  and  Salvadoran  ministers,  and 
we  haven’t  time  to  chase  back  to  Chinandega  for  another 
inspection.  Besides,  we  were  in  Chinandega  day  before 
yesterday  and  nothing  was  said  about  permisos  de 
embarque.  You  have  a Government  official  here,  and 
if  he  can’t  inspect  our  papers  and  see  that  they’re  in 
proper  order,  what  the  blazes  can  he  do,  besides  telephone 
you  ? ” 

A splutter  from  the  other  end  of  the  line,  and  momen- 
tary silence. 

“ Where  you  are  from  ? ” inquired  the  voice  an 
instant  later. 

“ From  San  Jose  de  Costa  Rica.” 

“You  are  from  by  steamer  ? ” 

“ No,  by  horse.  Por  tierra.  From  San  Jose  to 
Chinandega  by  land.” 

“ Why  you  are  go  to  Salvador  ? ” 

“ On  private  business.  It  doesn’t  concern  you.” 

“ Ve-ree  well.  I am  care  none.  In  Chinandega  you 
are  know  some  mans  ? ” 

“ No,  only  in  Managua.” 

“ Who  they  are  in  Managua  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Kingsbury,  for  one.” 

“You  will  please  to  spell  for  me  hees  nombre  [name]  ? ” 
“ Sure.  Listen  [I  wrestle  with  the  intricacies  of  the 
Spanish  alphabet,  kicking  myself  meanwhile  for  not 
selecting  a shorter  “ nombre,”  and  producing  sounds 
like  the  computation  of  a month’s  laundry-bill  by  an 


GARRISOX  OUTSIDE  COMAXDAXCIA,  CHIXAXDEGA.  STILL  BULLET-SCARRED. 


BOVERTX-STBICKEX  CABIX  BESIDE  TKAIL  TO  PLAYA  GRAXDE. 


15-2] 


HOSPITALITY  AT  THE  COMANDANCIA  153 

excited  Chinaman] : “ Kay — ee — en-nai — hai — essay — 
bay — oo — air-ray — ee-gree-ai-gah.” 

“ I are  not  understand  heem.  Do  heem  again.” 

Once  more  I spell  it. 

“ Um-h-m-m  ! You  weel  not  come  to  Chinandega  \ ” 

“ We  will  not ! ” 

“ Veree  w^ell.  In  half  one  hour  you  are  know  what  I 
say.” 

Possibly  three  minutes  later  the  telephone  jangled. 
The  Commandant  listened,  then  saluted  and  turned  to 
us  with  the  news  that  we  were  graciously  permitted  by 
His  Highness  Prefecto  Tiferino,  Comandante  Militar, 
Jefe  Politico  and  holder  of  the  High  Graft,  the  Middle 
and  the  Low  for  the  Department  of  Chinandega,  to 
embark  in  the  launch  for  La  Union  on  Monday  morning 
when  it  came  to  Playa  Grande.  But  we  were  warned 
that  the  passage-money,  seven  dollars  gold  apiece,  must 
be  paid  into  the  pilot’s  hands  before  embarking. 

Jim  made  arrangements  with  the  Comandante  to 
provide  our  meals  during  our  stay,  then  said  good-bye. 
We  watched  the  little  mula  pick  her  way  across  the 
treacherous  tide-flats  and  told  each  other  that  there 
was  nothing  black  about  him  except  his  skin. 

There  was  no  woman  at  the  comandancia.  One  of 
the  three  boy-soldiers  who,  under  the  Commandant, 
formed  the  garrison  of  the  port,  served  as  cook.  In  the 
evening  he  brought  us  tin  plates  of  rice  and  black  beans 
and  filled  our  aluminium  cups  with  muddy  cafe  negro 
sweetened  with  brown  sugar.  The  boiled  plantains  I 
had  eaten  at  midday  lay  heavy  upon  my  conscience, 
and  between  whirling  stomach  and  the  racket  of  a herd 
of  goats  embroiled  under  the  house  I got  but  little 
sleep. 

We  were  out  as  the  first  red  rays  of  dawn  flashed  upon 


154  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

the  broad,  glinting  sweep  of  the  Playa  Grande.  (The 
word  “ playa  ” really  means  strand,  sea-shore  or  beach, 
but  the  Central  American,  like  the  folk  who  christen 
apartment-houses  and  pancake-flours  in  our  own  land, 
often  pays  very  little  heed  to  the  fitness  of  the  title 
bestowed  upon  an  object.)  From  the  jungle  about  the 
comavdancia  came  the  matutinal  chatter  of  thousands 
of  parrots  and  macaws  which,  like  ourselves,  were 
preparing  to  leave  their  lodgings. 

All  the  mosquitoes  and  gnats  of  the  neighbourhood 
were  out  enjoying  the  crisp  freshness  of  the  morning, 
making  necessary  a smudge  at  the  edge  of  the  coman- 
dancia’s  verandah  which  overlooked  the  Playa  Grande. 
We  sat  huddled  near  the  smoke  and  looked  down  the 
glassy  estuary  toward  the  Gulf  of  Fonseca,  that  historic 
wet  mouth  of  Salvador,  Honduras  and  Nicaragua,  where 
the  old  buccaneers  had  once  maintained  a stronghold. 
The  twin  peaks  on  El  Tigre  Island  marked  the  site  of 
Amapala,  forty  miles  away,  and  the  hazy  headlands  of 
Salvador,  dimly  blue  in  the  far  distance,  joined  the 
blue  edge  of  the  sky-bowl  to  form  background  for 
the  picture. 

We  stared  longingly  in  this  direction,  “ for  ’twas 
there  that  we  would  be,”  and  the  delay  in  the  coman- 
dancia  pleased  us  little.  The  last  time  we  had  seen  those 
peaks  and  headlands  it  had  been  from  the  depths  of 
steamer  chairs ; as  we  left  Amapala  behind  we  had 
danced  to  the  music  of  a Filipino  orchestra  on  the 
Para’s  broad  deck.  Now  we  approached  again  in 
khakis  and  boots. 

Breakfast-menu  was  comida-menu  all  over  again — 
rice,  frijoles  and  muddy  coffee.  When  we  had  eaten 
our  ration  the  Comandante  proposed  an  excursion  down- 
stream to  a fishers’  camp,  and  we  embarked  in  a long 


BARGAINING  FOR  FISH 


155 


dugout  canoe  with  the  Comandante  and  the  administrator 
of  a neighbouring  hacienda,  with  two  soldiers  to  row  us 
down-river. 

The  camp  of  the  fishermen  was  set  in  a tiny,  machete- 
hacked  clearing  in  the  jungle  almost  at  the  water’s  edge. 
It  was  an  “ open-faced  ” shelter  of  boughs,  with  hides 
of  deer,  of  hefty  alligators  and  tigres  thrown  carelessly 
over  the  roof,  or  hung  from  near-by  trees  beside  the  rude 
nets  and  great,  soft-iron  shark-hooks.  The  fishermen 
numbered  a half-dozen,  wild,  tangled-haired  and  bushy- 
bearded,  half-naked,  who  were  more  gentle  toward 
strangers  than  their  uncouth  appearance  promised. 

The  administrador , like  the  Comandante , was  well 
known  to  them  ; he  fell  straightway  to  bargaining  for 
some  of  the  dried,  salted  fish  hanging  from  the  racks  near 
the  camp.  The  purchase  completed,  he  looked  about 
for  other  form  of  amusement  and  found  Norm  cleaning 
his  six-gun,  which  he  had  taken  from  the  shoulder- 
holster  beneath  his  shirt.  The  administrador  wore  a 
nickel-plated,  pearl-handled  sidearm,  of  the  type  sold  by 
enterprising  American  munitions  factories  to  the  Latin 
trade — eight  inches  of  barrel- length,  almost  equally 
dangerous  at  either  end.  He  was  inordinately  proud  of 
this  bright  ornament,  and  to  me — Norm’s  Spanish  was 
confined  to  a dozen  or  so  of  nouns — explained  the 
superior  beauty  of  his  weapon.  He  levelled  it  at  a huge 
tree  some  fifty  feet  away  and  put  three  shots  into  the 
trunk  only  a couple  of  feet  from  the  blaze  which  was  his 
target. 

Norm  looked  up  absently,  then,  holding  his  blue 
Smith  and  Wesson  at  the  hip,  sent  six  shots  into  the 
blaze,  over  which  I could  place  my  palm.  Judging  from 
the  awed  expressions  of  the  watchers,  Norm  still  holds 
the  championship  of  Northern  Nicaragua  ; after  that, 


156  JTJNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


the  Cornandante  treated  him  with  a respect  wonderful  to 
behold,  and  the  administrador  was  markedly  silent.  The 
palm-wide  cluster  of  holes  was  significant. 

At  midday  the  fishermen  prepared  a meal  of  salt 
fish,  jerked  vension  and  rice  and  beans,  and  spread  tigre- 
skins  for  us  in  a shady  spot.  When  we  had  eaten,  the 
entire  company  sprawled  under  the  trees  for  a siesta — 
which  was  not  so  different  from  the  custom  in  small  towns 
of  the  United  States,  after  the  Sunday  dinner.  In  the 
cool  of  the  evening  we  rowed  back,  hugging  the  green 
wall  of  low  trees  half- submerged  by  the  high  tide,  with  the 
Cornandante  watching  keenly,  a long-barrelled  Mauser 
of  very  ancient  vintage  across  his  knees,  for  a deer. 
Once  we  halted  and,  peering  through  the  branches, 
caught  sight  of  one  of  the  little  dun  bucks  of  the  country. 
But  the  reloaded  shell  in  the  rifle  wouldn’t  explode,  and 
at  the  click  of  hammer  on  cap  the  buck  was  gone  in  great 
bounds. 

With  the  little  soldiers  singing  at  the  oars,  we  drew  up 
to  the  landing-plank  on  the  muddy  beach  below  the 
comandancia,  just  as  the  darkness  came  down  in  earnest. 
When  the  administrador  and  his  cowboys  had  ridden 
away  through  the  night,  their  alforjas  bulging  with  dried 
fish  and  all  apparently  well  satisfied  with  their  outing, 
we  were  given  our  comida  of  rice,  frijoles  and  jerked 
venison. 

After  a period  of  noticeable  hesitation  the  Cornandante 
produced  from  a locked  drawer  in  his  table  a half-dozen 
little  iced  cakes — evidently  his  private  luxury — and  we 
listened  for  an  hour  to  his  discussion  of  that  subject  of 
engrossing  interest  to  every  Costaricense  and  Nicar- 
aguense — the  Nicaraguan  Canal,  which  must  eventually 
replace  the  makeshift  passage  at  Panama.  At  nine- 
thirty  Norm  rose  and  stretched. 


ANOTHER  DAY  AT  LA  GRANDE  157 

“We’d  better  be  turning  in,”  he  suggested.  “ That 
gasolina  may  be  here  pretty  early  to-morrow.” 

So,  in  the  optimism  bred  of  ignorance  of  the  move- 
ments of  vessels  in  those  waters,  we  swung  our  hammocks 
between  the  verandah-posts  and  covered  them  with  the 
mosquito-bars,  planning  to  be  up  with  the  dawn,  ready 
for  our  sixty-mile  journey  across  Fonseca.  But  when  the 
morrow  came  . . . 

Either  the  goat- herd  was  less  noisy,  or  we  were  sleepier, 
for  we  were  like  dead  men  until  sunrise.  As  the  sky 
above  the  jungle- trees  was  turning  from  grey  to  crimson 
and  the  parrot  army  discussed  the  day’s  doing  behind  us, 
we  were  bathing  in  the  salt,  lukewarm  waters  of  the 
estuary.  But  for  the  sight  of  an  ominous  dorsal  fin  in 
midchannel  and  the  memory  of  the  ten-foot  ’gator-hides 
hanging  in  the  fishing-camp,  we  would  have  plunged  in 
for  a swim. 

After  breakfast  the  telephone  rang  and  the  Coman- 
dante  notified  us,  very  apologetically,  that  the  launch 
Delia  had  broken  down  and  so  couldn’t  arrive  before 
“manana”  (“the  morrow”).  We  resigned  ourselves 
to  the  inevitable  and  went  up  to  the  well  in  the  jungle,  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  comandancia,  where,  despite  a 
plague  of  black  flies  and  tiny,  pugnacious  wasps,  we 
managed  to  shave  and  scrub  our  spare  clothing. 

When  we  returned  to  the  house  we  found  the  Coman- 
dante  engaged  in  the  second  of  his  three  daily  occupations, 
which  were,  in  order,  driving  the  herd  of  red  goats  from 
the  verandah  of  the  house,  feeding  two  half- fledged 
parrots  which  nested  in  an  old  hat,  and  fishing  diligently, 
but  always  unsuccessfully,  from  the  dugout  canoe. 

Once  a week  he  assumed  his  official  expression  and 
inspected  the  passenger-list  of  the  gasolina  bound  from 
Tempisque  to  La  Union.  Since  this  craft  was  owned 


158  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

by  Tiferino  the  Prefect,  the  Comandante’ s superior 
officer  and  patron,  the  inspection  was  never  more  than 
perfunctory.  For  his  duties  the  Comandante  received 
the  sum  of  thirty  dollars  per  month.  So  princely  was 
this  sum  and  so  pleasant  the  duty  that  in  Managua  there 
were  always  a horde  of  applicants  for  the  post.  One 
other  source  of  revenue  the  Comandante  had  : 

The  three  little  soldiers  received  thirty-two  cents  per 
day  for  their  services  during  a six-month  enlistment. 
Of  this  amount  they  were  required  to  hand  over  half  to 
the  Comandante  for  their  ration.  He  fed  them  on  rice 
and  beans  at  an  average  cost  of  six  centavos  per  day 
and  so  pocketed  a profit  of  thirty  cents  per  day,  since 
there  were  three  soldiers  in  the  garrison.  This  amount, 
added  to  his  regular  salary,  made  nearly  forty  dollars  a 
month,  heavy  pay  for  a Nicaraguan  officer. 

The  soldiers  knew  all  this,  but,  like  most  natives,  it 
seemed  to  arouse  in  them  no  indignation.  They  were 
products  of  the  Central  American  system  of  politics  ; 
government  was  the  machine  for  rewarding  top- dog. 
But  they  were  at  least  consistent  in  their  outlook.  If 
they  had  the  chance,  they  would  graft,  also  ; so  why 
blame  another  for  doing  no  more  than  they,  in  like 
position,  would  have  done  ? 

Like  the  majority  of  his  compatriots,  the  Comandante 
would  desert  any  or  all  of  his  important  duties  to  be 
photographed.  As  a matter  of  fact,  he  was  willing  to 
pose  every  hour  or  so,  and  the  garrison — well,  they 
would  have  walked  upon  their  hands  from  daylight  to 
sundown,  had  Norm  but  pointed  the  kodak  in  their 
direction. 

Those  wrearv,  wreary  days  at  Play  a Grande  ! Each 
morning  we  rose,  prepared  to  board  that  seemingly 
mythical  gasolina.  Each  evening  saw  us  still  there, 


PHOTOGRAPHER  AND  MICA-SNAKE  KILLED  IN  WELL,  PLATA  GRANDE. 


158] 


COMANDANTE  AND  GARRISON,  PLATA  GRANDE. 


THE  COMANDANTE  LEAENS  ENGLISH  159 


with  the  Comandante’  s placating  assurance  that  the 
launch  must  come  “ of  a certainty,  senores ! ” on  the 
morrow. 

We  were  up  with  the  dawn,  to  sit  in  the  shelter  of  a 
smudge  until  breakfast ; done  with  the  inevitable  rice 
and  black  beans,  we  watched  apathetically  while  the 
Comandante  and  one  of  the  soldiers  fished  from  the  dug- 
out.  There  was  nothing  to  read,  very  little  to  eat, 
nowhere  at  all  to  go.  In  the  afternoon  we  waited  for 
the  evening  meal  and  at  dusk  we  swung  our  hammocks. 
After  that  first  windfall  of  venison  we  returned  to  a 
steady  ration  of  arroz  y frijoles  negros — rice  and  black 
beans — until  we  could  view  with  perfect  equanimity  a 
clime  where  neither  vegetable  might  grow. 

The  Comandante  appeared  nightly  upon  the  verandah 
to  recite  his  English  lesson.  From  some  old  grammar 
he  had  pilfered  a single  phrase,  and  this  he  parroted, 
watching  us  keenly  to  note  the  effect. 

“ Geeve — eet — to — me-e-e — un — keess  he  would 

say,  then,  very  anxiously,  in  Spanish  : 

“ It  is  correct,  mi  pronundacion  ? ” 

One  of  the  little  soldiers,  a fifteen-year- old  Honduran 
waif  from  Amapala,  had  picked  up  a sizeable  collection 
of  most  lurid  oaths,  which  he  recited  in  a queer,  twisted 
sing-song  with  no  apparent  knowledge  of  the  meaning 
of  the  individual  words,  but  with  a wicked  understanding 
of  their  nature.  When  I asked  him  the  source  of  his 
education  he  replied  naively  : “ From  a missionary-man, 
senor.” 

Sunrises  and  sunsets  were  our  only  compensations. 
Each  morning  we  turned,  Mohammedan-like,  to  the  east. 
There  the  estuary  lay  in  smooth,  gleaming  curves  be- 
tween its  walls  of  low,  damp-green  jungle  ; far  across 
the  tree-tops  the  faintest  lovely  rose-flush  marked  the 


160  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 


line  between  sky  and  water  ; to  the  south  the  truncated 
cone  of  El  Viejo  was  limned  in  regal  purple  against  the 
delicate  lavender  of  the  heavens.  For  a moment  or  two  it 
was  so,  as  if  all  Nature  had  come  for  a breath  to  a stand- 
still ; then  with  a magnificent  rush  the  flaming  edge  of 
the  sun  shot  above  the  horizon,  and  the  colours  of  the 
sky  deepened  and  paled  and  changed  in  a welter  of  writh- 
ing hues  that  embraced  the  spectrum,  merging  at  the 
last  in  a solid  sheet  of  orange  that  spread  all  across  the 
canopy.  The  brazen  day  had  come  again. 

Our  cigarettes  vanished  with  the  third  day  of  bondage, 
for  there  was  little  to  do  but  smoke.  The  Comandante 
had  no  tobacco,  so  for  two  days  and  nights  we  went 
about  in  tobacco-less  gloom.  Then  Norm  found  two 
long  stubs — we  forbore  to  ask  which  one’s  they  had 
been — and  these  we  rolled  in  cigarette  papers  and 
smoked  very  slowly,  so  that  they  lasted  for  an  entire 
day. 

As  we  waited  for  breakfast  on  the  fourth  morning  a 
blotch  appeared  on  the  water  upstream,  and  Santiago, 
the  Honduran  youth,  cast  a careless  glance  toward  it. 

“ ‘ Meester  Sharlee/  ” he  lisped.  “ El  un  Aleman  ” 
(“  He  is  a German  ”). 

Half  an  hour  later  an  ancient  dugout  canoe  came 
along  the  landing-plank  and  a tall,  thin  white  man, 
clad  in  old  felt  hat,  ragged  pyjamas  and  sandals  of 
untanned  cowhide,  laid  down  the  bow  paddle.  A 
native  woman,  as  tattered  as  her  lord  and  master,  rose 
in  the  stem,  while  we  remained  in  the  shelter  of  the 
verandah,  having  small  love  for  Germans.  But  the 
craving  for  tobacco  soon  outweighed  race-dislike.  The 
man  was  puffing  serenely  at  a cigarro,  so  down  we  went 
to  the  landing  and  examined  the  cargo  of  the  dugout. 

“ Glory  be  ! ” said  Norm.  “ Look  at  the  cigarros  ! ” 


CHARLEY  SCOTT 


161 


“ Do  you  speak  English  ? ” I inquired  of  the  owner 
of  the  dugout,  and  he  looked  at  the  two  of  us  with  a 
quizzical  expression  in  deep- set  grey  eyes. 

“ Well,”  he  drawled,  “ if  the  lingo  we  used  to  use  in 
Rhode  Island  hasn’t  been  ruled  out  of  the  dictionary, 
I may  claim  that  I do.” 

Thus  did  Charley  Scott  enter  our  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances. He  had  been  more  than  thirty  years  in  the  Five 
Republics,  and  as  we  sat  on  the  verandah,  wreathed 
about  by  smoke  of  puro,  he  told  us  of  shooting  jaguars 
and  leones  in  the  jungles  along  the  Playa  Grande  ; of 
his  life  in  Central  America  before  a severe  fever  had 
stripped  him  of  everything  he  owned  save  the  old  canoe 
and  an  ancient  Remington  carbine  whose  stock  per- 
petually threatened  to  divorce  the  barrel. 

One  of  the  Lost  Tribe  was  Charley.  He  had  come 
to  the  tropics  resolved  to  make  a stake  and  return  to 
his  native  town,  but  gradually,  as  the  years  passed  and 
lined  his  pockets  with  no  more  than  fair  wages,  his 
connexion  with  his  people  had  been  broken.  Now  he 
knew  that  he  would  live  and  die  in  lotus-land.  He 
shrugged  somewhat  indifferently  as  he  finished  his  tale, 
or,  rather,  the  portions  of  it  he  told  us. 

“ I’ll  get  caught  by  fever  some  day,  or  a tigre  will 
drop  on  me  in  the  jungle,”  he  said  fatalistically. 
“ Then  ‘ Meester  Sharlee  ’ will  be  forgotten  by  every- 
body.” 

We  donated  two  new  flannel  shirts  and  two  pairs  of 
trousers  to  his  outfit  and  he  returned  the  compliment 
with  a small  bundle  of  puros,  the  finger-thick,  rough- 
rolled  cigars  of  the  pais.  For  those  puros — in  that 
moment — we  would  have  stripped  and  gone  into 
Salvador  in  pink  G-strings,  so  we  couldn’t  feel  that  the 
charity  was  from  us  to  him. 

11 


162  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

“ Manana  ” the  launch  must  surely  come,  came  the 
word  over  the  telephone  from  Chinandega,  so  we  gave 
over  a hastily  conceived  plan  to  have  Charley  set  us 
across  to  the  Salvadoran  shore  above  La  Union,  and 
watched  him  paddle  downstream  in  the  darkness. 

The  eighth  day  of  our  imprisonment  dawned  grey  and 
cool.  After  a frugal  breakfast  of  frijoles — the  rice  had 
given  out  the  day  before — we  packed  our  belongings 
for  the  sixth  time  since  arrival.  I inquired  of  the 
Comandante,  “ Cuanto  le  debo  a Usted  ? ” (“  How  much 
do  we  owe  you  ? ”) 

The  reply  came  so  glibly  that  immediately  we  saw 
the  point  of  all  his  shrewd  questions  as  to  our  wealth 
and  worldly  position  in  the  States.  He  had  been  deter- 
mining the  exact  amount  at  which  we  might  be  expected 
to  balk. 

“ Siete  cordobas  y setenta-cinco  centavos  ” (“  Seven 
dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  ”),  he  answered  in  honeyed 
tones. 

Now,  we  had  but  five  dollars  and  ninety  cents  in  the 
cordoba  currency  of  Nicaragua  and  were  of  no  mind  to 
exchange  bona-fide  United  States  banknotes  for  more  of 
this  “ just-as-good-except-usually  ” money.  So  I re- 
joined in  accents  of  pleased  surprise  : 

“ Setenta-cinco  centavos , solo  ? ” (“  Only  seventy-five 
cents  ? ”) 

He  admitted  his  tactical  error  by  reducing  the  demand 
to  a mere  murmur — plainly  audible,  however — of 
“ Cinco  pesos  ” (“  Five  dollars”). 

Recognizing  the  futility  of  further  argument,  we 
delved  into  our  pockets  and  produced  our  combined 
hoards  of  Nicaraguan  small- denomination  bills  and 
silver,  and  counted  out  five  cordobas.  The  ninety 
centavos  remaining  in  our  possession  worried  the 


“GASOLINA”  OF  DELIVERANCE  163 


Comandante.  He  was  pained  at  thought  of  us  leaving 
his  sphere  of  influence  with  money  of  the  republic ; for 
nearly  an  hour  he  dropped  broad  hints  that  Nicaraguan 
money  was  looked  upon  with  contempt  in  Salvador ; 
it  would  be  of  no  earthly  use  to  use  once  aboard  the 
gasolina.  I fear  that  it  would  pain  him  deeply  did  he 
know  that,  as  I write  these  words,  those  miniature 
banknotes  lie  on  the  desk  before  me. 

We  sat  upon  the  verandah,  straining  our  eyes  for  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  gasolina  of  deliverance  ; I think  that 
the  Israelites  waited  no  more  anxiously  for  the  coming 
of  Moses  than  we  looked  for  the  arrival  of  that  launch. 
Then  the  telephone  bells  jangled  and  the  Comandante 
edged  nervously  through  the  doorway  to  say  that  it 
was  impossible,  owing  to  an  unforeseen  delay,  for  the 
launch  to  leave  Tempisque  until  “ manana,”  when,  of 
a certainty,  it  must  arrive. 

By  this  time  we  were  past  fear,  fawning,  or  even 
discretion.  We  paced  the  verandah  and  expressed,  in 
mixed  Spanish  and  English,  our  full  and  unqualified 
opinion  of  Nicaragua  in  general  and  Tiferino  the  Prefect 
in  particular,  until  the  jungle- walls  threw  back  the 
echoes. 

The  Comandante,  at  first  mention  of  the  Prefecto’s 
august  name,  dodged  back  into  the  house  where  he 
couldn’t  be  said  to  have  heard.  But  Santiago  listened 
rapturously  and  seemed  disappointed  when  we  paused 
for  lack  of  breath.  But  the  Comandante  didn’t  reappear 
until  the  storm  was  over. 

We  ate  and  swung  our  hammocks  that  evening  in 
silence,  determined  that  it  was  the  last  nightfall  we 
should  witness  from  the  comandancia.  If  the  gasolina 
failed  to  appear  by  noon  of  the  morrow,  then  we  would 
induce  the  Comandante — at  the  point  of  a gun,  if  neces- 


164  JUNGLE  TRAILS  IN  NICARAGUA 

sary — to  set  us  down  to  Charley  Scott’s  camp,  then 
hire  the  latter  to  set  us  across  Fonseca. 

So  we  turned  in,  but  not  to  sleep,  for  we  had  been  all 
day  in  somewhat  the  same  condition  as  that  of  the 
luckless  hornbre  of  whom  the  old  Spanish  ballad  tells  : 


“ No  tengo  tabaco  ; no  tengo  papel ; 
No  tengo  dinero  ; no  tengo  mujer  ! ” 


(“  I have  no  tobacco  ; I have  no  (cigarette)  papers  ; 

I have  no  money  ; I have  no  woman  ! ”) 

The  puros  given  us  by  Charley  had  been  smoked  to 
the  last  lip-scorching  stump  by  midnight  of  the 
previous  day — six  of  them  disappeared  while  we  were 
outside  the  house,  and  Santiago  looked  most  guilty  as 
we  searched  for  them — and  our  nerves  were  taut.  Also, 
the  goats  insisted  upon  staging  a pitched  battle  under 
the  verandah  for  comfortable  spots,  and  we  drove  them 
into  the  jungle  only  to  hear  them  return,  panic-stricken. 

For  from  half  a dozen  points  in  the  jungle,  both 
behind  the  comandancia  and  across  the  wide,  moonlit 
waters  of  the  estuary,  came  long,  hair-raising  howls. 
The  cur  sleeping  beneath  the  hammocks  rose  with  neck- 
hair  bristling  and  with  a whimper  of  fright  tried  to 
crawl  into  the  hammock  with  Norm.  Santiago  appeared 
in  the  doorway  of  the  house,  dragging  one  of  the  long- 
barrelled,  ancient  Mauser  rifles  issued  to  Nicaraguan 
troops. 

“ Coyotes  solos  ! ” (“  Lone  wolves ! ”)  he  said  uneasily, 
and  went  on  to  explain  that  these  were  great,  grey 
ghost-beasts  which  hunted  singly  and  often  attacked 
the  inhabitants  of  isolated  cabins  in  the  jungle  and 
devoured  them.  Much  of  wThat  he  told  us  he  had 
heard  from  parents  and  grandparents,  so  I should  imagine 


THE  CHUBCH,  JIASAYA, 


164] 


AT  LAST  WE  LEAVE  PLAYA  GRANDE  165 


that  the  coyote  solo  is  regarded  with  much  the  same  awe 
by  Central  Americans  as  that  which  was  once  felt  by 
the  French  peasants  for  the  loup-garou,  or  were- wolf. 
Santiago  finally  went  back  to  his  bed  upon  the  table 
inside,  but  he  carried  the  long  rifle  across  his  arm,  and 
when  I looked  inside  the  house  next  morning  he  slept 
with  face  cuddled  upon  the  barrel,  one  bare  toe  in 
dangerous  promixity  to  the  trigger. 

The  lagging  dawn-light  came  at  last  to  redden  the 
clouds  above  the  trees,  then  the  sun  broke  through  the 
mist,  blood-red  and  gold.  We  went  down  to  the  water 
to  wash,  then  took  our  usual  seats  in  the  smoke  of  the 
smudge,  tortured  by  the  ghosts  of  vanished  cigarettes. 

At  eight  o’clock — I think  we  shall  never  forget  the 
hour,  even  if  we  live  to  compute  our  years  with  an 
adding-machine — the  ’phone-bell  tinkled  and  the 
Comandante  leaped  out,  all  smiles*  to  tell  us  that  the 
gasolina  had  left  Tempisque,  was  even  then  headed 
downstream  to  pick  us  up.  I have  read  my  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  Swiss  Family  Robinson  faithfully  since 
childhood,  but  not  until  that  moment  had  I ever  really 
understood  the  emotions  of  the  castaway  when  a ship 
heaves  in  sight. 


CHAPTER  VII 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

Across  Fonseca  in  a Sieve — La  Union  and  Quarantine — Pros 
and  Cons  of  La  Union — Notes  on  Central  American  Trading — 
Zacatecoluca  the  Unpronounceable — In  and  about  San  Sal- 
vador— More  Passports — “Fiesta”  means  “Noise” — At  the 
Mercy  of  “El  Barbero” — “Prettiest  Town  in  Central 
America.” 

TEN  o’clock  saw  us  in  mid-stream,  with  the  dingy 
comandancia  of  Playa  Grande  fading  in  the 
distance  astern.  We  looked  back  and  waved  at 
the  Comandante  and  the  little  soldiers  who  stood  upon  the 
rough  landing-stage  waving  their  ragged  hats,  then 
turned  our  faces  toward  the  Gulf. 

As  Al.  Jolson  might  put  it,  “ there  are  boats  and 
then  there  are — boats  ! ” Our  craft  was  of  the  latter 
variety.  It  was  the  most  dilapidated,  decrepit  old 
ballahou  I have  ever  been  a passenger  on,  some  twenty 
feet  over  all,  with  a ragged,  dirty  canopy  pretending 
to  house  in  the  interior,  and  propelled  by  an  ancient, 
one-lunged  gas  engine — the  manufacturers’  number  one, 
we  decided  after  examination — secured  to  its  bed  by 
one  bolt,  a twisted  iron  nail,  two  hairpins  and  the 
engineer’s  “ arrival  in  port  ” socks. 

The  engineer  was  prone  to  slumber.  It  must  have 
been  an  inherited  talent ; by  no  possible  strain  of  the 
imagination  could  one  conceive  of  such  ability — genius, 
almost — for  sleeping  in  any  position  being  acquired  by  a 
man  of  his  years  through  mere  practice.  There  was  an 

166 


A SPANISH  GLOBE-TROTTER 


167 


impromptu  quality  about  his  slumberings  which  was 
delightful ; it  set  him  apart  from  other  sleepers  even  in 
that  land  of  drowsing  folk. 

We  were  filled  with  enthusiasm  when  we  set  forth  ; 
touched  with  the  spirit  of  the  Argonauts  as  the  launch 
cleared  the  mouth  of  the  estuary  and  we,  looking  across 
the  Gulf,  saw  El  Tigre  Island  dead-ahead.  But  the 
piloto  turned  inshore  to  a hacienda  he  knew,  a tiny  spot 
of  forty-odd  thousand  acres.  Here  we  stayed  until 
midnight,  drowsing  in  the  shade  of  the  verandah,  for 
the  pilot  was  unfamiliar  with  the  currents  and  refused  to 
move  until  pleamar — high  tide. 

There  were  four  passengers  beside  ourselves  in  the 
launch  : two  Salvadoran  brothers,  a mujer  of  easy  virtue 
accompanying  the  elder,  and  an  olive-skinned,  intelli- 
gent-faced individual  in  khaki  more  travel-stained  than 
our  own,  whose  baggage  consisted  of  a leather  satchel 
with  a small  tin  bucket  dangling  outside  and  an  immense, 
oiled  canvas  bag  filled  with  lurid  pictures  of  saints  and 
madonnas.  This  hornbre  was  a Spanish  globetrotter 
from  Madrid,  bound  on  an  attempt  to  circle  the  globe 
in  five  years,  supporting  himself  by  the  sale  of  his  glaring 
lithographs  of  Catholic  art.  His  Castilian  accent  was 
very  different  from  the  slurring  patois  of  Central  American 
countries,  and  it  was  a subject  of  almost  tearful  indigna- 
tion to  him  that  these  “ Indios,”  as  he  called  them 
contemptuously,  mocked  his  accent. 

“ I — I speak  the  pure  Castilian,”  he  cried,  “ and  these 
savages  dare  to  laugh  ! ” 

The  little  tin  bucket  in  which  he  carefully  boiled  all 
water  before  drinking  it  was  another  source  of  merri- 
ment to  the  people.  The  Salvadorans  made  many 
atrocious  jokes  about  it. 

During  the  night  as  we  chugged  and  stopped,  chugged 


168 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


and  stopped  again,  the  piloto  explained  to  the  engineer — 
or,  rather,  in  the  engineer’s  general  direction,  since  the 
latter  was  slumbering  peacefully  on  the  fantail  outside 
the  canopy — how  Prefecto  Tifermo  had  kept  us  cooling  our 
heels  at  Playa  Grande  day  after  day,  to  the  amusement 
of  Chinandegan  officialdom,  by  the  promise  that  the 
launch  would  surely  come  on  the  morrow.  The  piloto  had 
taken  our  ignorance  of  the  language  for  granted,  because 
we  had  not  spoken  to  him  since  embarking.  He  was 
smitten  utterly  dumb  when  I asked  him  in  his  own  tongue 
how  the  Prefecto  spelled  his  name. 

We  limped  onward  through  the  darkness,  with 
Miengara  Island,  the  ancient  stronghold  of  the  buccan- 
eers, bulking  dimly  over  the  bow.  The  woman  and  I, 
with  the  exception  of  the  pilot,  were  the  only  ones  awake. 
Norm  had  pre-empted  the  starboard  thwart,  upon  which 
he  slept  peacefully ; the  globetrotter  sprawled  at  full- 
length  on  the  greasy  bottom-boards — disturbed  periodic- 
ally by  the  boy  who  bailed  the  craft,  ten  gallons  every 
half-hour  ! — while  the  engineer,  heedless  of  his  sputtering 
charge,  snored  raucously  outside  the  canopy.  One  of 
the  Salvadorans,  the  younger,  had  fallen  asleep  in  a sit- 
ting posture,  while  the  other  lay  with  his  head  pillowed 
in  the  woman’s  lap,  hand  on  the  hilt  of  a long-bladed 
dagger  at  his  belt.  He  roused  himself  from  time  to  time 
to  cast  a suspicious  glance  first  up  into  the  woman’s  face, 
then  at  me,  to  catch  any  signs  of  intelligence  between 
us. 

Merely  to  provoke  the  surly  Salvadoran,  I began  to 
chat  with  the  woman,  and  she,  joining  in  the  game  with 
a wink,  leaned  interestedly  forward  to  reply.  So  the 
man  was  forced  to  sit  up  and  try  to  keep  awake  to 
prevent  her  paying  undue  attention  to  me. 

So  the  night  wore  on,  with  the  three  of  us  puffing  at 


LA  UNION 


169 


our  puros,  of  which  all  of  us  had  bought  a fresh  supply 
at  the  hacienda.  The  pilot,  recovering  from  the  shock  of 
discovering  that  I spoke  Spanish — of  a sort — turned  to 
inquire  if  Norm  and  I had  one  hundred  dollars  each. 
Since  it  is  usually  profitable,  in  Central  America,  to  seem 
poor,  I shouldn’t  have  admitted  possession  of  this  amount 
even  if  we  had  had  it.  As  a matter  of  record,  neither  of 
us  had  carried  so  much  as  fifty  dollars  since  leaving 
Costa  Rica,  for  we  made  it  a point  to  belt  only  enough 
cash  to  provide  for  ordinary  living  expenses. 

“ Then,”  said  the  pilot  triumphantly,  when  I had 
grunted  in  the  negative,  “ you  can’t  enter  Salvador. 
All  Europeans  and  Americans — except  Central  Ameri- 
cans— must  have  one  hundred  dollars  each,  in  gold 
money,  or  they  are  turned  back.  You  will  have  to  go 
back  to  Tempisque  with  me  in  this  launch  and  you  must 
pay  your  return  passage,  also.  It  is  the  law.” 

I smiled  as  irritatingly  as  I knew  how  and  said  nothing. 
From  time  to  time  he  turned  to  assure  me  that  our  im- 
poverished condition  made  us  ineligible  for  entry  into 
the  Republic  of  Salvador,  but  I was  too  busily  engaged 
in  formulating  plans  to  answer  him. 

At  daybreak  we  passed  the  long  pier  of  the  Pacific 
Mail  Steamship  Company  in  the  harbour  of  La  Union 
and  stood  up  to  the  Customs  Wharf.  The  pilot,  with 
utter  indifference  to  the  presence  of  the  woman,  turned 
over  the  wheel  to  the  boy  and  stripped  himself  of  the 
greasy  clothes  he  had  worn  on  the  passage.  When  he  had 
completed  his  toilet  he  was  clad  in  grey  flannel  trousers 
evidently  tailored  for  a much  larger  man,  one  of  the 
mercerized  cotton  shirts  which  give  a semblance  of 
silk  and  patterned  with  those  stripes  best  calculated  to 
attract  the  beholder’s  unwavering  attention.  A cravat 
of  magenta,  with  white  horseshoes,  and  a dingy  panama 


170 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


completed  his  outfit.  We  went  along  the  Customs  Wharf 
without  further  delay. 

We  climbed  a rickety  stairway  at  imminent  risk  of  a 
ducking  and  answered  to  our  names  as  they  were  called 
from  the  passenger-list  handed  over  by  the  pilot.  The 
latter,  offended  by  my  failure  to  give  proper  heed  to 
his  information  concerning  the  statutes  of  Salvador, 
waited  anxiously  for  the  moment  when  we  would  be 
driven  back  down  the  stairway  into  the  launch.  He 
even  took  the  Comandante  of  the  Port  Guard  aside  and 
explained  our  financial  embarrassment  to  that  official. 
But  another  complication  had  become  apparent  and  we 
had  occasion  to  damn  the  Prefecto  once  more  and  very 
much  indeed. 

Sanitary  certificates,  signed  by  the  Medico  Civico  of 
Chinandega  and  attesting  our  physical  purity,  were 
demanded  of  us.  We  did  not  have  them,  nor  did  the  pilot, 
as  our  conductor,  have  them  for  us.  The  Port  Doctor — 
we  had  enjoyed  a tilt  with  him  when  the  Para  touched 
at  La  Union,  and  knew  his  devotion  to  the  letter  of  his 
office — was  sent  for  post-haste  and  he  came,  though  not 
post-haste. 

He  informed  us  with  every  indication  of  extreme  bore- 
dom that  we  must  be  quarantined  for  a period  of  five 
days.  We  waited  on  the  dock  for  a few  minutes,  under 
the  guard  of  a dozen  boys  of  twelve  or  thirteen  in  blue 
denim  uniforms  with  red  stripes  along  the  seams  of  their 
trousers-legs.  These  militant  youngsters  kept  the 
muzzles  of  their  short  Mausers  trained  with  uncomfort- 
able directness  upon  us  and  seemed  disappointed  that 
they  received  no  order  to  fire. 

The  Spanish  globetrotter  was  in  like  predicament  to 
ours,  but  he  had  a heritage  of  patience  far  superior. 
He  sat  down  upon  his  big  canvas  bag,  apparently 


171 


LA  UNION  AND  QUARANTINE 

resigned — as  we  were  not — to  remain  in  one  position  for 
the  entire  five  days.  Finally  he  asked  the  doctor  if  he 
might  go  uptown  for  coffee.  The  doctor  nodded  consent, 
and  the  engineer  of  the  gasolina,  now  almost  awake  under 
the  excitement  of  landing,  and  wearing  shoes,  told  us 
that  we,  also,  might  as  well  go  to  the  hotel. 

The  globetrotter  had  spread  out  his  possessions  upon 
the  dock  for  inspection  by  the  officials,  but  they  seemed 
so  weary,  so  ennuied  by  La  Unionistic  existence,  that  we 
had  not  the  heart  to  add  further  to  their  burdens.  We 
picked  up  our  hammock-wrapped  bundle  and  without 
troubling  them  to  look  it  over  followed  behind  the 
engineer  toward  the  town. 

He  led  us  to  the  Hotel  Italiano,  where,  knowing  Cen- 
tral American  officialdom  fairly  well,  we  engaged  a large, 
clean  room.  Coffee,  with  eggs  and  wheat  bread,  was 
served  us  in  the  patio  and  we  ate  like — two  able-bodied 
men  who  had  subsisted  for  ten  days  on  a scant  dole  of 
boiled  rice  and  frijoles. 

There  was  no  American  consul  at  La  Union,  but  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Westin,  consul  for  Panama,  a big,  bluff 
Englishman  long  resident  in  the  republics,  we  failed  to 
mourn  the  lack  of  a representative  of  our  own  land. 
We  spent  the  morning  in  his  patio,  listening  to  tales  of 
buried  treasure  and  of  robbers’  and  pirates’  strongholds 
on  Miengara  and  the  neighbouring  isles  and  in  looking 
over  his  array  of  pearls. 

If  ever  I accumulate  sufficient  of  this  world’s  goods  to 
be  able  to  enjoy  a hearty  attack  of  nervous  prostration, 
I shall  hie  me  to  a steamer  office  and  purchase  a ticket 
for  La  Union,  there  to  swing  in  a hammock  in  Mr. 
Westin’s  shady  patio  and  listen  to  his  talk  of  life  beneath 
the  banana-flag,  as  he  has  seen  it  for  twenty  years. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  Italiano  we  stopped  for  an 


172 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


hour  at  the  queerest  institution  in  La  Union.  This  is 
the  English  school  of  Walter  Vaughn,  a Jamaican  negro 
of  Panaman  citizenship.  Vaughn  had  files  of  Salva- 
doran boys — and  one  little  Turk — ranging  from  five  to 
fourteen  years  of  age,  reciting  English  sentences  and 
returning  answers  to  the  questions  of  the  instructor  in 
clipped,  singsong  English. 

Vaughn  is  doing  a real  missionary  work  in  La  Union, 
and  it  is  a pity  that  some  of  our  philanthropists — those 
who  insist  upon  sending  their  money  overseas,  at  any 
rate — cannot  endow  a school  of  languages  in  the  Central 
American  Republics.  Much  of  the  distrust  of  the  Latin 
American  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  disappears  with  knowledge 
of  English,  and  if  Vaughn,  possessed  of  practically  no 
equipment  save  a half-dozen  tattered  grammars,  can  give 
parents  and  children  a working-knowledge  of  the  tongue 
in  brief  time,  modern  methods  must  of  a certainty  work 
wonders. 

There  was  a natural- history  exhibit  in  the  schoolroom — 
jars  of  snakes  and  insects  preserved  in  alcohol  and  draw- 
ings of  various  animals.  We  saw  our  ancient  acquaint- 
ance, the  toboba,  and  several  other  serpents,  the  habits 
of  which  Vaughn  gave  us  in  a peculiar  mixture  of  sooth 
and  fable.  One  powerful  constrictor  of  much  the  same 
shape  as  the  moccasin  of  the  Southern  United  States, 
of  a rusty  brown  colour,  he  called  a massacuata. 

This  snake,  said  Vaughn,  was  harmless  to  man,  except : 
The  massacuata  is  fond  of  curling  himself  about  the 
rafters  of  native  huts,  where  the  warm  air  from  the  cook- 
ing-fires rises  about  him.  He  keeps  to  himself,  annoying 
no  one.  But  if  the  woman  of  the  house  is  nursing  a 
child,  the  massacuata  will  descend  at  night  and, 
thrusting  aside  the  baby,  attach  himself  to  the  mother’s 
breast. 


PROS  AND  CONS  OF  LA  UNION  173 


So,  in  Salvador,  where  this  belief  is  universal,  there 
is  a saying  among  the  peasants  when  a scrawny  child 
is  seen  : “ His  mother  must  have  suckled  a massacuata .” 

There  was  little  of  interest  in  La  Union.  Of  its  three 
thousand  accredited  inhabitants  most  were  indoors 
whenever  we  took  the  air.  Of  all  the  towns  of  Salvador, 
it  is  the  drowsiest.  The  steamers  touching  here,  with 
resultant  periodical  influx  of  sightseers,  have  brought 
to  the  place  a celluloid  semblance  of  modernness, 
noticeable  principally  in  the  tourist-prices  on  every 
item  in  the  shops,  and  in  the  tariffs  of  the  hotels  and 
bars. 

In  the  shop  of  a naturalized  German — who  tries  to 
be  very  simpatico  with  the  natives  and  has  even  taken 
a dusky  daughter  of  the  land  into  his  household  as  its 
mistress — we  found  a variety  of  American  and  European 
articles  and  their  prices  were  only  five  or  six  hundred 
per  cent,  higher  than  in  the  States.  The  most  appealing 
display  in  the  shop — to  natives — was  a rack  of  hideous 
picture-postcards  of  the  best  oily  German  school — 
“ Enjoying  Life  in  this  Place,”  or  “ Thought  I’d  Drop 
You  a Line,”  with  appropriate  simpering  morons  of 
both  sexes  depicted  above  the  captions. 

The  German  had  quite  a stock  of  English  words  ; and 
by  the  last  steamer  he  had  been  given  the  latest  in 
American  slang.  So,  when  we  had  looked  at  his  German- 
made  panama  hats,  and  other  “ curios  ” without  pur- 
chasing, he  indicated  the  postcards. 

“ Now  dot,”  said  he,  “ is  somedings  like,  vot  ? 
Chess  ! Id’s  glassy  ! ” (classy  ?). 

He  had  alligator-hides,  poorly  tanned  and  dyed  in 
brilliant  electric  blues  and  screaming  scarlets,  modestly 
priced  at  from  forty  to  fifty  pesos — equivalent  to  half 
that  many  dollars — and  of  the  really  beautiful  tortoise- 


174  SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

shell  ornaments  made  by  the  inland  natives  he  had 
none  at  all.  They  weren't  lurid  enough  to  be  “ glassy." 

The  heat  of  the  sea-coast  was  intense.  Not  even  in 
the  desolate  jungles  of  Northern  Nicaragua  had  we 
felt  the  sultriness  so  keenly.  It  was  torture  to  stand 
at  the  railway  station  and  look  down  the  gleaming 
lines  of  track  that  ran  the  mile  to  the  Pacific  Mail  dock 
on  the  shore.  We  elbowed  through  the  languidly 
importunate  throng  of  women  who  wished  to  sell  us 
newly  caught  green  parrots  and  big,  rowdy-voiced 
macaws,  and  searched  out  a comparatively  cool  spot  in 
the  back  room  of  a cantina.  Here,  fortified  somewhat  by 
iced  limonadas  against  the  blazing  furnace  that  is  La 
Union,  we  lounged  through  the  afternoon. 

At  some  time  that  afternoon  the  Port  Doctor  became 
convinced  that  we  had  brought  with  us  no  contagious 
diseases  from  Nicaragua  and  the  quarantine  was  lifted. 
We  were  grateful  to  Mr.  Westin,  who  had  worked  the 
change  in  the  heart  of  the  doctor. 

Vaughn  came  up  in  the  evening  to  talk  of  his  work, 
the  teaching  of  English.  He  mentioned  the  cold 
shoulder  the  Salvadoran  Government  had  shown  him 
when  he  tried  to  get  official  sanction  of  his  efforts. 
They  didn’t  care,  apparently,  whether  the  youth  of 
Salvador  ever  learned  the  English  tongue.  This  was 
Vaughn’s  impression,  and  from  personal  observation  I 
can  easily  accept  it. 

We  of  the  United  States  are  for  ever  prating  of  our 
desire  for  Central  American  trade,  harping  on  the  close 
friendship  existing  between  the  republics  of  Central 
America  and  the  big  mother- republic  to  the  north. 
Which  is  chiefly  conversation. 

The  Central  American  does  not  like  us,  as  a people. 
He  is  far  more  apt  to  display  friendship  for  the  German, 


CENTRAL  AMERICAN  TRADING  175 


the  Italian,  or  almost  any  other  foreigner  than  toward 
Americans  and  Britons.  He  respects  the  latter,  some- 
times fears  them,  seldom  understands  them  and  would 
prefer,  all  things  being  considered,  to  remain  at  a 
distance  if  possible. 

Some  of  this  rises,  I think,  in  the  fact  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  is  more  difficult  of  assimilation  into  a foreign 
life  than  any  other  race.  Germans,  Italians  and  French, 
particularly,  become  almost  the  same  as  natives, 
simpdtico,  at  least,  while  the  American  or  Briton  insists 
upon  creating  around  him  a bit  of  his  own  homeland, 
and  this  the  native  secretly  or  openly  resents.  There 
is  always  a feeling  of  inferiority  in  the  natives’  minds 
when  associating  with  the  Anglo-Saxon,  while  with  the 
men  of  some  other  nations,  particularly  of  those  I have 
mentioned,  he  is  on  an  equality.  Which  explains  the 
peculiar  position  of  the  American  or  Englishman  in  the 
Latin  countries  of  America. 

If  the  merchants  of  the  United  States  want  the  trade 
of  Central  America  they  will  have  to  compete  with  other 
foreign  traders.  Certainly  they  will  have  to  make  a 
more  intelligent  survey  of  the  field  than  do  most  of 
them  at  present.  Many  American  firms  seem  to  find 
difficulty  in  reconciling  their  ideas  of  good  business 
methods  with  those  in  vogue — for  sufficient  reasons— -in 
Central  American  countries. 

For  instance,  at  the  beginning  of  the  rainy  season — 
May  or  June — the  Central  American  jobber  orders  his 
goods  from  the  States.  It  requires  from  two  to  three 
months  for  the  shipment  to  be  received  by  him,  but  if 
he  gets  it  within  four  months,  by  September,  or  early 
October,  he  is  satisfied.  But  if  they  are  later  than 
October  in  arriving,  he  is  seriously  inconvenienced,  for 
in  late  October  he  must  begin  to  ship  his  goods — by 


176  SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

mule-train  or  ox-cart  in  most  of  the  countries — to  the 
retailers  inland.  All  the  transportation  must  be  accom- 
plished during  the  dry  season  when  the  trails  are  pass- 
able ; in  the  wet  months  the  roads  are  quagmires. 

These  points  must  be  considered  by  the  wholesale 
dealer  in  the  States,  for  if  they  are  not,  the  wholesaler 
will  find  himself  supplanted  by  a German  or  other 
foreign  firm  willing  to  study  the  peculiar  needs  of  the 
trade. 

Another  habit  of  many  American  dealers  which 
arouses  the  ire  of  the  native  jobber  is  the  mailing  of 
catalogues — evidently  by  the  hand  of  a typical  office-boy 
— with  insufficient  postage  affixed.  These  catalogues 
come  by  roundabout  ways — one  I saw  was  addressed 
to  a merchant  in  San  Jose,  Costa  Rica,  Philippine 
Islands  ! — to  the  jobber,  sometimes  with  from  twenty- 
five  to  fifty  cents  postage  due.  And  they  are  printed 
in  English,  very  often. 

Say  that  the  jobber  bears  this,  even,  and  orders  his 
goods  from  the  offending  catalogue  at  prices  listed 
therein.  Then,  sometimes  months  later,  he  receives  a 
curt  statement  informing  him  that  the  prices  have 
been  raised  since  the  catalogue  was  printed  or  sent. 
He  agrees,  understanding  that  the  market  fluctuates, 
and  still  waits  for  his  order  to  be  filled.  Then,  at  a 
time  when  he  should  be  receiving  his  goods,  he  is 
further  notified  that  all  or  part  of  the  goods  he  ordered 
have  been  withdrawn  from  stock.  Naturally,  he  resents 
such  cavalier  treatment. 

Of  course,  the  instances  cited  are  the  extremes ; 
many  firms  pay  particular  attention  to  their  export 
trade  and  reap  a rich  harvest.  But  from  the  corre- 
spondence I have  examined,  the  complaints  I have 
heard,  it  would  seem  that  a majority  of  American 


YOUNGER  GENERATION,  ZACATECOLUCA.  MULE-OAR,  SAN  SALVADOR. 


ZACATECOLUCA  THE  UNPKONOUNCEABLE  177 


wholesalers  regard  the  Central  American  business  as  a 
necessary  evil,  rather  than  as  a golden  opportunity. 

It  seemed  that  we  had  no  more  than  stretched  upon 
the  heavenly-soft  beds  when  the  chambermaid — an 
elderly  Salvadoran  with  impressive  mustachios — set  up 
a pounding  at  our  door.  When  we  rose  we  found  that 
the  clamour  had  also  roused  a beggarman  crouching 
upon  our  doorstep.  We  gulped  our  coffee,  ate  a roll 
and  paid  our  score.  With  the  beggar  preceding  us  with 
the  bundle  of  our  possessions,  we  walked  through  the 
quiet  streets  of  the  sleeping  city.  The  first  rays  of  the 
sun  were  just  reddening  the  glassy  water  of  the  harbour 
as  we  stood  before  the  ticket-window  of  the  station 
demanding  tiquetes  to  Zacatecoluca. 

When  I had  secured  the  long  strips  of  pasteboard 
entitling  us  to  a passage  on  the  Ferrocanil  International 
de  Central  America  en  Salvador,  to  give  the  brief,  narrow- 
gauge  road  its  top-heavy  official  title,  I turned  to  find 
Norm  engaged  in  deaf-and-dumb  conversation  with  a 
heavy-eyed  policeman.  For  Salvador  has  adopted  the 
Continental  system  of  registering  the  stranger  within 
her  gates.  One  must  give  name,  occupation  and  destina- 
tion to  the  police  when  entering  or  leaving  any  town. 
Norm  had  scrawled  our  names  and  occupations  in  the 
policeman’s  notebook,  but  when  our  destination  was 
also  demanded  he  met  his  Waterloo  among  the  syllabic 
jungles  of  “ Zacatecoluca.” 

We  found  a seat  in  the  first- class  coach  and  stowed 
the  bundle  overhead.  The  railways  of  Central  America 
were  beginning  to  seem  old  acquaintances  of  ours  ; we 
treated  them  with  half-contemptuous  familiarity  and 
in  this  instance  proceeded  to  make  ourselves  comfort- 
able in  approved  Latin- American  fashion.  There  were 
but  few  passengers,  so  we  turned  the  seat  ahead  to  face 
12 


178  SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

us  and  rested  our  boots  upon  the  wicker  cushion,  then, 
placidly  ignoring  the  toothless  sign  which  warned  us, 
“ No  se  fumar  permite  en  este  coche  ! ” (“  Smoking  not 
permitted  in  this  coach ! ”)  produced  and  lighted 
cigarettes. 

As  far  as  San  Miguel  the  country  was  a level,  sea- 
board plain.  That  town  was  the  usual  Central  American 
pueblo  of  nine  or  ten  thousand  people,  with  the  spires 
of  the  churches  overshadowing  the  sprawling  collection 
of  low,  red-tiled  roofs  in  much  the  same  fashion  as  the 
Church  overshadows  the  lives  of  the  dwellers  in  the 
houses.  The  land  was  very  dusty  and  covered  with 
scrubby  thorn-bushes ; the  little  fields  seemed  dry  and 
not  overfertile,  the  soil  burned  cinder-hard  by  the  fierce 
sunlight. 

Past  San  Miguel,  the  town,  the  track  skirted  the  foot 
of  San  Miguel,  the  volcano,  a blunt,  cone-shaped  peak 
with  long,  gently  sloping  sides  upon  which  were  the 
green  checks  marking  the  slanting  fields  of  the  petty 
farmers.  The  crater  of  the  volcano  was  blackened  like 
a sooty  chimney  and  the  track  was  laid  across  lava-beds 
for  several  miles,  where  the  tortured  rock  had  writhed 
and  twisted  in  all  manner  of  fantastic  forms,  to  cover 
thousands  of  acres  of  lowland  with  an  inky  carpet. 
Then  more  dusty  plain,  more  scrub  timber. 

Noon  came,  and  at  every  jerking,  grinding  halt — and 
they  were  legion,  tiny  clusters  of  thatched  huts  beside 
the  track — the  vendors  of  food  and  tobacco  filed  through 
the  train.  For  a peso,  worth  fifty  cents  gold,  we  bought 
fried  chicken,  a mound  of  smoking-hot  rice  soaked  with 
chili-sauce,  and  two  loaf-like  rolls.  These,  with  four 
oranges  at  a half-centavo  each,  made  an  ample  midday 
meal. 

As  we  neared  our  destination  the  train  gradually 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  ZACATECOLUCA  179 


filled  with  passengers.  Since  almost  every  traveller 
occupied  the  space  intended  for  four,  many  of  the  late- 
comers were  forced  to  squat  in  the  aisles.  The  Central 
American,  when  travelling  by  rail,  seats  himself  in  one 
seat,  turns  the  one  ahead  so  that  he  can  place  his  feet 
upon  it.  Then  he  scatters  his  belongings  over  the 
vacant  spaces  on  both  cushions,  lights  a cigarette  and 
defies  God,  the  Devil,  Man  or  the  Railway  Company  to 
budge  him  until  his  destination  is  reached. 

At  every  station  the  police  had  taken  our  names, 
occupations  and  destinations.  When  we  entered  an 
automobile-stage  in  Zacatecoluca,  holding  tickets  good 
for  the  fifty-nine  kilometre  passage  to  San  Salvador,  we 
were  forced  to  register  once  more  in  the  official  note-book. 

The  highway  to  the  capital  was  a bed  of  fine,  white 
dust,  more  than  a foot  thick,  masking  countless  “ chuck- 
holes,”  as  we  call  them  in  the  South-west  United  States. 
Progress  was  necessarily  slow  and  rather  disagreeable. 

On  the  high  road  we  met  women  with  nets  upon  their 
backs  containing  a single  great  earthen  jar — Salvador, 
from  prehistoric  to  present  days,  has  produced  excellent 
pottery — and  bound  for  the  market  at  Zacatecoluca. 
There  were  many  Salvadorans  of  the  better  class,  astride 
tough  little  mules,  singlefooting  sedately  townward,  and 
the  ever-present  groups  of  the  peon- class,  with  packs 
upon  their  shoulders.  Whole  families — father,  mother 
and  from  one  to  ten  children — squatted  beside  the  road, 
resting  and  passing  from  hand  to  hand  the  great  water- 
gourds.  All  were  coated  with  fine  dust,  which  clung  to 
hair  and  skin  and  gave  them  the  appearance  of  having 
just  escaped  from  confinement  in  a flour-mill. 

The  automobile  is  not  yet  the  national  institution  it 
has  become  in  our  country.  All  the  passengers  on  the 
highway  gave  the  stage  a wide  berth — save  only  the  oxen. 


180  SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

Far  ahead  of  us  would  appear  a pillar  of  dust  thirty  or 
forty  feet  in  height,  covering  the  entire  width  of  the 
camino.  Nearing  it,  at  the  sound  of  our  driver’s  siren, 
a great  scurrying  of  invisible  men  and  animals  would 
ensue.  Once  the  car  had  plunged  into  the  thick  dust  we 
immediately  lost  sight  of  each  other  in  the  blinding, 
choking  cloud.  Almost  in  our  ears  would  sound  the  shrill 
yells  of  the  drovers  and  a path  would  clear  before  the 
car  or,  perhaps,  a long,  sharp  horn  would  graze  the  side 
of  the  car. 

But  it  was  most  ludicrous  when  we  overtook  a herd  of 
pigs.  Frantic  sows  and  piglets  would  dash  in  every 
direction,  followed  by  the  men,  the  boys,  the  dogs,  each 
striving  diligently  to  outdo  the  others  in  the  matter  of 
uproar.  How  they  could  see  each  other,  the  automobile, 
or  the  animals  was  a mystery  to  me,  but  somehow  they 
managed  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos. 

The  passing  of  the  daily  stage  was  evidently  an  event 
in  the  lives  of  the  people  of  the  numerous  huts  along  the 
way,  and  in  the  villages  we  passed  every  few  kilometres. 
They  dashed  to  their  doorways  with  excited  shrieks 
and  watched  us  out  of  sight. 

At  five  in  the  evening  we  drew  out  of  the  sparsely 
settled  region  where  tiny  fields  chequered  the  mountain- 
sides and  the  thatched  or  red-tiled  roofs  clung  to  brown 
shoulders  where  it  seemed  that  no  man  could  climb. 
We  reached  the  “ paved  ” highway  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  capital  and  bumped  and  jolted  over  the  rough  stones 
into  the  city,  as  the  grey-blue  haze  settled  upon  the 
mountain-tops.  The  hotels  and  lodging-houses  were 
filled  with  the  country-folk  come  in  to  celebrate  the 
Fiesta  Unionista,  so  we  considered  ourselves  fortunate 
when  at  a house  in  the  Avenida  Once  Norte  we  were  given 
a tiny,  unlighted  room  and  served  comida. 


IN  AND  ABOUT  SAN  SALVADOR  181 


San  Salvador  we  found  more  “ citified  ” than  either 
Managua  or  San  Jose  de  Costa  Rica.  The  broad  streets 
are  clean  and  well  paved  in  the  main,  although  some 
of  the  calles  are  paved  with  cobblestones  as  rough  as 
those  of  the  old  quarter  of  New  Orleans.  There  is 
electric  lighting — in  spots.  Its  fifty-three  thousands  of 
inhabitants  make  it  second  in  size  only  to  Guatemala 
City  among  the  capitals  of  Central  America,  and  third  in 
size  of  all  the  cities. 

The  transportation  system  includes  no  electric  cars. 
Mule-drawn  street-cars  like  those  seen  a generation  ago 
in  the  States  jog  up  and  down  the  streets  to  the  merry 
tune  of  the  clacking  hoofs  and  the  drivers’  shrill  yells. 
Codies  are  as  common  as  in  San  Jose,  and  there  are  a 
dozen  or  more  expensive  automobiles,  the  property  of 
wealthy  planters,  to  be  seen  parading  solemnly  and 
slowly— remember  the  cobblestones — about  the  city. 

During  our  Sunday-morning  stroll  we  passed  many 
stately  buildings,  notably  the  penitenciana — very  often 
one  of  the  largest  buildings  in  any  Latinized  town — the 
National  Theatre,  the  residences  of  the  president  and 
the  governor  of  the  department,  and,  as  usual,  many 
fine  Catholic  churches.  Parks  and  plazas  were  on  every 
hand,  the  lawns  of  most  of  them  mutilated  with  statuary 
of  every  conceivable  size,  variety  and  colour.  None 
but  had  at  least  one  heroic  equestrian  figure  of  a great 
man  of  Salvador’s  past. 

Imported  goods  we  found  very  expensive  ; a ten-cent 
sack  of  Durham  tobacco  cost  me  two  pesos — equivalent 
of  a dollar,  gold.  American  brands  of  cigarettes,  which 
had  jumped  to  twenty  cents  a package  just  prior  to  our 
sailing  from  San  Francisco,  were  as  much  as  two  dollars 
gold  here.  Cigarette  papers  were  not  to  be  had  at  any 
price,  though  we  visited  every  shop  we  saw.  The  dealers 


182  SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

informed  us  that  “ only  the  factories  roll  cigarettes  in 
Salvador.”  But  for  fifteen  centavos  could  be  obtained 
long,  black,  quick-burning  cigarettes  of  native  make, 
in  packs  of  twenty.  We  tried  them  and  found  them 
excellent. 

We  drifted  through  the  crowded  streets  toward  the 
market.  All  the  people  were  in  holiday  garb  and, 
apparently,  holiday  spirit,  for  they  chattered  and 
laughed  as  they  went.  We  had  none  of  the  malevolent 
glances  which  had  marked  our  passing  in  the  Nicaraguan 
towns. 

Salvador,  as  a whole,  reminded  us  much  of  Costa  Rica. 
There  was  the  same  apparent  content  with  life-as-it-is 
in  the  faces  of  the  'peon,  and,  too,  the  appearance  of  want 
so  common  in  Nicaragua  was  not  to  be  observed  among 
these  soft-eyed,  brown-skinned  people.  Everyone 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  a peaceful,  pleasant  existence, 
living  at  a leisurely  gait,  finding  the  world  a good  place. 
The  climate  of  San  Salvador  evidently  has  something  to 
do  with  the  steady  activity  of  its  inhabitants ; neither 
hot  nor  cold,  the  air  is  pleasant  at  any  hour  of  the  day. 
There  is  a charming  lack  of  the  rush  and  bustle  of  cities 
of  the  States. 

In  the  Campo  del  Marie  we  lingered  for  a time  with  the 
gaily  dressed  throng  of  civilians  and  brilliantly  uniformed 
army  officers,  to  watch  the  cadets  at  field-sports.  It  was 
evidently  a gala  occasion,  for  the  stands  were  filled  with 
Salvadorans  of  both  sexes  in  American  or  European 
clothing.  But  we  were  anxious  to  be  heading  north- 
ward ; cities  were  not  as  interesting  as  the  mountain 
trails.  So  we  turned  to  the  American  Ministry  and  there 
received  the  usual  greeting— no  mail. 

In  addition  to  the  ordinary  commercial  passport, 
Guatemala  requires  a “ local  passport  ” from  her  Minister 


182] 


MARKET-PLACE,  SAX  SALVADOR. 


MORE  PASSPORTS 


183 


in  the  capital  of  Salvador,  so  we  inquired  our  way  to  the 
residence  of  that  official.  Here,  for  four  pesos  each,  we 
were  given  papers  recommending  us  to  the  good  offices 
of  all  Guatemaltecan  officials,  who  were  requested  to 
furnish  us  such  comforts  as  we  might  need  at  reasonable 
prices.  The  Minister  confessed  that  not  for  worlds  would 
he  penetrate  the  mountains  of  his  native  land,  but  he 
had  heard  something  concerning  the  trails  and  he  told 
us  what  little  he  knew. 

At  our  boarding-house  we  experienced  the  usual 
difficulty  when  we  asked  for  a second  cup  of  coffee.  Not 
even  Oliver  Twist’s  famous  request  for  another  helping 
produced  more  horror  in  the  spectators.  The  waiter 
brought  it,  but  his  expression  was  one  of  deep  injury. 
It  seems  odd  that  Salvador,  which  produces  so  much 
coffee  and  tobacco,  should  have  so  few  people  addicted 
to  either  coffee-drinking  or  smoking.  The  women,  we 
observed,  smoked  more  than  the  men,  some  of  them 
having  a cigar  or  cigarette  between  their  lips  almost 
constantly.  But  neither  men  nor  women  falling  under 
our  notice  drank  more  than  one  demi-cup  of  cafe  at  a 
meal. 

We  retired  on  Sunday  night  at  the  tarde  hour  of  nine — 
because  at  that  hour  all  the  lights  of  the  house  were 
turned  off — beneath  all  the  covering  we  could  devise. 
San  Salvador’s  altitude  makes  for  chill  nights.  The 
climate  seemed  much  the  same  as  that  of  San  Jose  de 
Costa  Rica,  but  the  town  itself,  or  that  indefinable 
something  I can  only  term  “ spirit,”  we  found  much  less 
to  our  liking  than  in  “ The  Queen  of  Central  American 
Cities.” 

On  Monday  morning  we  were  the  first  persons  in  the 
dining-room,  for  city-dwellers,  in  Central  America  as 
elsewhere,  are  not  early  risers.  When  we  had  persuaded 


184 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


the  table-mozo  to  bring  us  all  the  coffee  our  systems  de- 
manded, we  took  a bulky  collection  of  notes,  letters  and 
films  to  the  post  office.  This  building,  like  others  we  saw 
in  the  capital,  had  once  been  an  imposing  structure  ; 
its  height  and  area  were  still  enough  to  set  it  apart, 
but  about  exterior  and  interior  was  an  unkemptness 
that  seemed  to  reflect  the  careless  habits  of  the  native. 
In  caring  for  their  sometimes  splendid  municipal  or 
federal  buildings  they  lack  the  regular  diligence  of  the 
peoples  of  the  north ; once  the  new  plaything  has 
aged  a trifle  in  their  eyes,  it  is  apt  to  be  neglected  for 
something  of  fresher  interest. 

The  only  occupant  when  we  arrived  was  a smiling 
little  policeman  who  stood  behind  a rude  stand  in  the 
entrance,  with  a tin  box  of  stamps  for  sale  to  those  who, 
like  ourselves,  came  before  the  regular  office-hours. 

The  capital  had  waked  to  usher  in  the  Fiesta  Unionista, 
a celebration  which  was  in  some  manner  intended  to 
show  Salvador’s  willingness  to  consider  the  merging  of 
all  Central  America  into  one  federation,  similar  to  that 
existing  from  1823  to  1838  under  the  title  of  “ The 
United  Provinces  of  Central  America,”  and  which  has 
been  the  theme  of  various  patriots  from  the  time 
of  Francisco  Morazan,  “ the  Washington  of  Central 
America.” 

Certainly,  on  this  bright  Monday  morning,  unless  the 
people  were  stone-deaf  they  had  scant  chance  to  over- 
sleep and  miss  the  excitement.  The  church  bells  set  up 
a brazen  clamour  ; the  artillery  boomed  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  capital,  and  from  cuartel  and  Cam'po  del  Marie 
drums  and  bugles  added  their  quota  to  the  general  up- 
roar. The  drivers  of  the  mule- cars  were  in  a peculiarly 
feverish  state  ; from  end  to  end  of  their  trips  they  kept 
the  gongs  of  their  little  cars  vibrating,  while  the  mules 


AT  THE  MERCY  OF  “ EL  BARBERO  ” 185 

on  which  the  transit  system  depended  became  infected 
with  their  drivers’  enthusiasm  and  substituted  a prancing 
gallop  for  the  regulation  jog-trot. 

The  ministrations  of  a Central  American  barber  are 
so  far  from  being  an  undiluted  joy  that  I had  walked 
grimly  past  the  peluqiierias  since  our  arrival  in  Pun- 
tarenas.  But  my  sunburned  hair  had  grown  so  long 
that  I began  to  fear  actual  loss  of  identity  and  so 
turned  reluctantly  into  the  striped-front  “ American 
Barber  Shop  ” on  the  narrow  street  that  leads  past 
the  Teatro  National. 

Juan  Barbero  thrust  me  down  into  a straight-backed 
chair  and  swathed  my  neck  with  towels  in  the  orthodox 
manner,  but  when  he  brought  out  a roll  of  absorbent 
cotton  I began  to  wonder  just  what  sanguinary  casualties 
he  anticipated.  However,  he  merely  tore  off  a long 
strip  and  tucked  it  between  neck  and  towels.  Then, 
chatting  meanwhile  with  the  friends  who  crowded  the 
doorway  to  watch  an  Americano  on  the  rack,  he 
emptied  the  contents  of  an  enormous  can  of  talcum 
powder  upon  my  head  and  rubbed  it  thoroughly  into 
the  scalp. 

Matters  having  progressed  thus  far,  he  produced  a 
pair  of  clippers  of  the  size  which  had  always  been 
associated  in  my  mind  with  livery-stables  and  proceeded 
to  expose  the  nakedness  of  temples  and  back-head. 
With  a smaller  pair  of  clippers  he  maintained  his  repu- 
tation for  thoroughness,  and  then  came  the  moment  for 
the  scissors. 

In  the  midst  of  a side-splitting  anecdote  of  the 
Rabelaisian  persuasion  with  which  he  was  regaling  the 
loungers  at  the  door — the  psychology  of  barbers  seems 
much  the  same  the  world  over — he  swooped  down  upon 
me  with  an  ominous  frown,  scissors  clutched  grimly  in 


186  SALVADORAN  PLAINS 

his  brown  right  hand,  and  seized  a handful  of  top- 
hair. 

This  was  the  moment  when  he  must  regain  those 
precious  moments  lost  in  preparing  me  for  the  ordeal. 
He  slashed  away  as  if  snipping  for  a wager ; auburn 
locks  fell  thick  and  fast.  Two  minutes  of  this,  perhaps, 
then  he  smoothed  the  ruffled  hair  with  caressing  palm 
and  sprayed  me  with  a perfume  much  favoured  by  the 
negro  housemaids  of  our  sunny  Southland. 

Twas  done.  He  whacked  the  ends  from  my 
moustache  with  two  deft  snips,  whipped  off  the  towels, 
bowed,  smiled  and  extended  his  hand  for  the  fee — 
twenty-five  centavos.  I paid  him  and  went  weakly 
out  into  the  morning  air.!  He  had  not  injured  me 
physically,  I found,  but  the  continued  tension  of  my 
nerves  had  been  almost  more  than  I could  bear. 

In  the  quiet  of  our  stall  at  the  Casa  de  Huespedes 
Norm  was  packing  our  slender  equipment  for  the 
journey  to  Santa  Ana.  When  I wandered  in,  feeling 
entitled  to  sympathy,  he  only  turned  upon  me,  red- 
faced and  sweating  by  large  drops,  to  snarl : 

“For  the  love  of  Pete  ! Stay  out,  will  you  ? This 
pigeonhole’s  so  small  that  I have  to  go  outside  to 
think.” 

So  I went  to  sit  in  the  patio  with  the  daughter  of  our 
hostess,  and  the  prospect  of  the  mountain  trails — men- 
tioned by  the  girl  with  pious  horror— seemed  pleasant 
rather  than  the  reverse. 

Norm’s  timepiece  was  more  energetic  than  those  of 
the  capital,  so  our  hurried  departure  from  the  boarding- 
house brought  us  to  the  station  a long  half-hour  before 
the  train  was  scheduled  to  move.  We  bought  tickets 
to  Santa  Ana  and  settled  in  a coach  to  wait  as  patiently 
as  might  be.  At  last  the  engineer,  or  conductor,  or 


CT'ARTEL  (MILITARY  HEADQVARTERS),  SAX  SALVADOR. 


NATIONAL  THEATRE,  SAN  SALVADOR 


ISO] 


IN  THE  TRAIN  TO  SANTA  ANA  187 


guard,  or  whoever  it  was  we  waited  for,  came  down  and 
we  pulled  out,  only  half  an  hour  behind  time. 

The  country-side  beyond  the  capital  was  a revelation, 
after  the  brown  aridity  of  the  sea-coast,  the  dusty 
reaches  of  central  Salvador.  The  land  was  green  and 
fertile  along  the  narrow  track,  which  followed  the 
curve  of  a foothill  shoulder  adjoining  a low  mountain 
range  on  the  east.  To  the  west  was  a deep  valley,  its 
bottom  and  sides,  dark  green  with  low,  rank  vegetation, 
lightened  in  colour  by  the  patches  of  sugarcane  and 
bananas. 

Looking  across  this  valley,  miles  away  appeared  the 
crest  of  another  mountain  chain,  with  the  volcano  of 
San  Salvador  rearing  its  brown  head  above  the  sur- 
rounding peaks.  Upon  the  mountain-sides  were  many 
green  squares  marking  cultivated  areas,  with  here  and 
there  a narrow  ribbon  of  silver  gleaming  in  the  afternoon 
sunlight  to  show  where  a little  stream  curved  down  to 
valley  depths. 

The  track  twisted  and  turned,  sometimes  descending, 
more  often  climbing,  slight  grades,  or  retaining  the 
level,  through  deep  cuts  and  around  the  jutting  rock 
shoulders  of  the  foothills,  crossing  stretches  of  smooth 
pastureland  where  we  saw  again  the  stately  matapala 
with  dark,  glossy  foliage  affording  dense,  grateful  shade 
in  that  land  of  white,  intense  sunlight. 

At  times  we  skirted  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice 
overhanging  the  sun-flooded  valley,  so  that  it  seemed 
we  might  toss  our  sucked  oranges  down  upon  the  red- 
tiled  roofs  of  the  toy  cabins  on  the  valley  floor,  far 
beneath  us.  Always  the  fine  dust  sifted  in  upon  us, 
though  in  smaller  quantities  than  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  capital.  The  passengers  in  our  coach  were 
cheerful-faced  and  friendly  in  their  regard  of  us.  Indeed, 


188 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


throughout  the  afternoon  whenever  Norm  looked  back 
at  a group  of  attractive,  olive-skinned  girls  in  the  rear 
of  the  car,  he  was  met  with  flashing  smiles. 

The  police  seemed  less  interested  in  us  that  afternoon 
than  they  had  been  on  the  journey  to  the  capital.  They 
boarded  the  train  at  each  little  huddle  of  huts,  brown, 
diffident  small  men  in  faded  blue  uniforms  and,  less 
often,  heavy  native  shoes  worn  on  bare  feet  which  never 
seemed  comfortable  in  the  cramping  footgear.  They 
strolled  aimlessly  through  the  coaches,  and  glanced 
curiously  at  us,  but  made  no  inquiries. 

But  when  we  reached  the  station  of  Santa  Ana  in 
the  twilight — the  end  of  steel  in  Salvador — a group  of 
officials  and  policemen  stood  at  the  gate  ready  to 
search  the  passengers5  luggage  and  persons  for  firearms. 
We  evaded  the  inspection  by  the  simple  process — so 
often  proved  effective  in  dealing  with  Central  American 
officialdom — of  ignoring  it  and  walking  straight  through 
the  policemen  who  had  moved  forward  to  halt  us. 

On  the  sidewalk  outside,  a plain-clothes  man  with 
shield  pinned  to  suspender  beneath  his  coat  in  the 
fashion  endorsed  by  all  correspondence  schools  of 
detecting,  and  huge  revolver  at  his  hip,  most  courteously 
requested  me  to  honour  him  by  inscribing  our  names 
and  occupations  in  his  notebook.  On  a similar  occasion 
in  Zacatecoluca  I had  resurrected  Julius  Caesar  and 
George  Washington  from  their  tombs,  registering  them 
as  coming  “ from  La  Union  55  and  going  “ away.55  So  I 
felt  that  we  owed  the  Republic  of  Salvador  some  amends 
and  therefore  scrawled  our  true  nombres  y ocupaciones 
upon  the  page  headed  Touristas  Norte  Americano.  Then 
we  returned  the  detective’s  formal  bow  and  turned 
away  in  search  of  an  inn. 

A cheerful  urchin  guided  us  to  the  Hotel  Florida, 


THE  PRETTY  LITTLE  TOWN  OF  SANTA  ANA  189 

trotting  ahead  under  the  bundle  which  was  almost  as 
large  as  its  carrier,  and  accepted  a Salvadoran  coin  with 
grave  dignity  at  the  doorway.  We  came  near  to 
fainting,  once  inside,  for  an  obsequious  mozo  led  us  into 
a spacious,  tile-floored  room,  electrically  lighted,  with 
modern  plumbing  fixtures,  real  beds  and  several  able- 
bodied  chairs.  When  he  saw  me,  a little  later,  sitting 
upon  the  edge  of  a bed  to  write,  he  dashed  outside 
and  in  again  with  a table,  which  he  placed  before  the 
open  street  door,  and  upon  which  he  laid  the  notebook, 
taken  firmly,  but  courteously,  from  my  hands. 

The  springs  of  the  beds  consisted  of  a taut  network 
of  rawhide  strips  with  the  hair  on,  a style  of  cama  very 
familiar  to  the  last  generation  in  Texas.  When  the 
strings  have  been  properly  stretched  and  the  mattress 
is  thick,  no  more  comfortable  bed  may  be  had. 

The  wind  had  sprung  up  before  our  arrival  and  it 
was  pleasantly  cool  in  Santa  Ana  that  evening.  We 
sat  near  the  open  street  door  and  watched  the  people 
stroll  past,  while  we  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  town — 
a combination  of  strumming  guitars,  faint  love-songs 
and  tinkling  laughter  floating  through  the  dusk  from 
where  the  young  folk  gathered.  The  night-sky  was  a 
canopy  of  blue-black  velvet,  spangled  and  powdered 
with  stars  and  star-dust  that  glowed  with  a soft  lustre 
like  that  of  the  topaz.  Above  the  serrated  crest  of 
the  mountain  range  hung  the  round,  white  moon,  and 
high  over  our  heads  was  the  Southern  Cross. 

Breakfast  was  a triumphant  meal  of  poached  eggs, 
hot  French  rolls  with  fresh  butter,  black  bean-paste, 
and  coflee  with  unlimited  milk  and  white  sugar.  We 
ate  in  the  patio  verandah  in  the  cool,  grey  dawn,  then 
stepped  out  into  the  street.  Already  the  low,  white 
buildings  gleamed  snowily  in  the  yellow  sunlight  that 


190 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


shone  upon  the  northern  hills,  the  ramparts  of  which 
swung  in  a great  semicircle  before  the  town,  but  the  last 
breath  of  the  dawn-wind  still  preserved  a sparkling 
coolness  in  the  air  as  we  sauntered  through  narrow 
streets,  past  the  Teatro  Santa  Ana,  to  the  plaza  and  the 
old  church. 

In  Santa  Ana,  as  in  almost  every  village  and  town  we 
had  seen,  the  church — and  others  of  the  more  pretentious 
buildings— was  fenced  about  by  weatherbeaten  scaffold- 
ing, as  drearily  useless,  as  depressing  of  aspect,  as  a 
rain-bleached  skeleton.  Upon  the  rickety  platforms  no 
workmen  gathered  ; there  were  no  signs  I could  ever 
detect  that  the  scaffolding  had  ever  served  a purpose. 
Once,  in  Nicaragua,  I inquired  concerning  the  time  when 
repairs  would  be  commenced,  and  received  a placid 
“ Quien  sabe  ? ” from  the  townsman  interrogated.  But 
in  Santa  Ana  a shopkeeper  seated  comfortably  outside 
his  doorway  was  more  garrulous. 

“ Soon — perhaps/’  he  replied,  then  added  of  his  own 
volition,  “ it  has  been  there  a long  time,  el  andamio 
(the  scaffolding).” 

“ About  how  long  ? ” 

He  merely  shrugged  at  this,  but  I persisted.  If  he 
had  definite  knowledge  of  this  work  I intended  to  get  it. 

“ How  long  ? ” 

But  he  had  plainly  exhausted  the  subject  of  interest. 

“ Quien  sabe?  ” (“  Who  knows  1 ”) 

“ How  long  ? A month  ? A year  ? ” 

He  reflected  for  a space. 

“ Seguramente  ! ” (“  Certainly  ! ”)  he  replied  at  last. 

“ Certainly  what  ? A month,  or  a year  ? ” 

He  considered  the  matter — at  least,  he  looked  as  if  he 
might  be  considering.  Then  he  puffed  twice,  three  times, 
upon  his  cigarette  and  smiled  upon  us. 


THE  NORTHWARD  TRAIL  AGAIN  191 


“ A long  time,  senores.” 

Past  plaza  and  church  we  went  and  into  the  shops  of 
the  German  merchants,  where  we  asked  questions  about 
the  trails  leading  to  Guatemala.  But  these  soft,  fat 
tradesmen  knew  little  of  anything  that  lay  outside  their 
great  ledgers.  They  answered  perfunctorily,  reluctantly 
lifting  pale,  piggy  eyes  from  the  columns  of  debit  and 
credit,  anxious  only  to  see  our  backs. 

A big,  sunburned  Englishman  whom  we  found  super- 
intending the  unloading  of  machinery  for  the  electric 
plant  gave  us  the  directions  we  desired,  with  a pessimistic 
sketch  of  the  condition  of  the  trails  through  the  high- 
lands of  Salvador  and  Guatemala.  Then  we  went  to 
the  hotel  to  pack  our  gear,  followed  by  our  chance 
acquaintance’s  sympathetic  farewell. 

“I’m  glad  it’s  your  feet,  not  mine,  that  have  to  climb 
those  trails,”  he  shouted  whimsically. 

In  our  room  at  the  Florida  we  packed  our  belongings 
in  the  hammocks,  adding  a carton  of  the  black,  sweet 
native  cigarettes  of  which  we  had  become  enamoured, 
and  a bountiful  supply  of  matches.  The  clerk  was  horri- 
fied at  thought  of  two  gringos  attempting  passage  of  the 
wild  mountain  trails  and  tried  hard  in  all  charity  to 
dissuade  us  from  such  a foolhardy  venture.  He  told  us 
of  the  brigands  who  haunted  the  mountain  fastnesses 
and  preyed  upon  travellers,  at  which  Norm’s  eyes  began 
to  shine  (he  had  been  bemoaning  the  general  peaceful- 
ness of  the  country),  and  shrugged  at  last  as  if  washing 
his  hands  of  all  responsibility  for  the  horrible  fate  which 
must  surely  overtake  us. 

At  the  northern  edge  of  Santa  we  turned  to  look  back. 
It  was  the  prettiest  little  town  we  had  seen  in  Central 
America,  with  the  snowy  walls  of  the  houses  in  striking 
relief  against  the  emerald  jungle  on  three  sides,  the 


192 


SALVADORAN  PLAINS 


morning  sun  glowing  warmly  upon  red  roofs,  the  spire 
of  the  old  church  rising  against  the  deep,  pure  blue  of 
the  sky.  We  had  been  so  cordially  treated  at  the  Florida 
that,  although  we  had  spent  but  one  night  beneath  its 
hospitable  roof,  it  seemed  very  homelike. 

“ The  best  hotel  in  the  prettiest  town  in  Central 
America,”  Norm  summed  it  up  neatly,  as  we  turned  our 
faces  toward  the  brown  peaks  to  the  north. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


Pages  from  “Gil  Blas” — Texistepeque  and  a Jest — Only 
Horsemen  are  Gentlemen — Metapan  at  Dawn — Out-walking 
the  Mule-trains — Gunplay  on  the  Inter-Republic  Trail — 
“The  Last  Frontier” — Adventure  in  the  “ Chiquimulin 
Country” — Scrambles  Up  and  Down  toward  Chiquimula — 
Zacapa  at  Last. 

IT  was  a crowded  road  we  followed  to  the  north. 
Muleteers  strode  behind  strings  of  pack-mules  laden 
with  boxes  and  bags,  or  great  rope  nets  of  maize- 
ears,  bound  “ over  the  hills  and  far  away.”  Solitary  riders 
jogged  townward  or  homeward  on  splendid  black  or  tiger- 
striped  mules.  Women  strode  past  us  bearing  huge 
burdens  of  country  produce  on  their  sleek,  black  hair, 
turned  great,  dark  eyes  on  Norm — and  smiled.  Happy- 
go-lucky  mozos  travelling  from  village  to  village,  farm  to 
farm,  with  bundles  on  back  or  shoulder,  their  scabbarded 
machetes  dangling  from  broad  belts  or  carried  in  their 
hands  like  walking-sticks,  nodded  and  smiled  as  they 
went  by.  We  had  no  lack  of  company. 

An  elderly,  bearded  hombre  waited  for  us  to  come  up 
with  him,  and  strode  along  with  us  for  a few  miles, 
asking  many  questions  about  the  States,  and  giving  us 
in  turn  the  high-lights  of  his  own  placid  existence  on  a 
little  mountain  farm  beyond  Texistepeque. 

Every  few  yards  along  the  roads  were  tiny  booths  of 
boughs,  where  for  a few  centavos  the  traveller  might 
13  193 


194  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


purchase  pork-fat  tamales,  tortillas,  oranges,  bananas, 
pineapples,  various  non-intoxicating  drinks  and  a pecu- 
liarly malignant  native  beer. 

At  such  a booth  we  halted  at  noon,  to  negotiate  for 
breakfast.  The  old  woman  brought  out  tamales  wrapped 
in  green  banana-leaves  and  still  smoking  from  the  kettle. 
These  were  very  poor  imitations  of  the  highly  seasoned 
tamale  of  Mexico.  We  nibbled  gingerly  at  the  tasteless 
concoction  of  boiled  corn-meal,  mixed  with  chunks  of 
fat  pork-skin  still  wearing  the  bristles,  and  turned 
quickly  to  the  inky  coffee.  The  old  woman  talked  as  we 
ate,  of  the  troubles  of  the  region,  of  the  arid  land  and  the 
struggles  of  the  poor  peones  to  wrest  a living  from  the 
rock  soil.  No  better  illustration  of  the  poverty  of  this 
section  can  be  given  than  the  fact  that  this  old  woman, 
set  up  as  a shopkeeper,  lacked  by  eighty  centavos  the 
change  for  a peso  note  worth  an  even  half-dollar  in 
currency  of  the  United  States. 

At  none  of  the  booths  we  passed  during  the  afternoon 
could  we  change  that  peso  billete.  Even  in  Texistepeque, 
reached  in  late  afternoon,  a straggling,  unpaved  town 
of  low  adobe  and  pole- walled  houses,  we  went  from  one  to 
another  of  the  tiendas  in  search  of  the  small  currency 
necessary  to  the  traveller  in  those  parts  without  success. 
In  none  of  the  shops  could  we  find  a Salvadoran  who 
would  admit  to  possession  of  so  much  money.  At  last 
the  Jefe  Politico,  whom  we  found  enthroned  on  a bench 
outside  the  comandancia,  a man  of  vast  girth  and 
apparently  equal  good  nature,  not  only  sent  a boy  to  a 
pulqueria  to  change  the  bill,  but  also  arranged  for  our 
meals  and  lodgings. 

“ The  saloons  have  all  the  money,"  he  told  us  placidly, 
in  effect. 

“ Then  why  not  do  away  with  saloons  ? ’’  I inquired 


lot] 


I CLIMB  A NIN'ETY-FOOT  PALM  AT  LA  LIBERTY!). 


TEXISTEPEQUE  AND  A JEST  195 

mischievously.  “We  have  done  so  in  the  Estados 
Unidos.” 

“ What ! Abolish  the  pulquerlas  ! ” He  was  very 
much  awake  at  the  suggestion.  “ Impossible ! It 
would  mean  revolution.  Has  it  not  produced  revolution 
in  the  United  States  ? ” 

“ No.  Only  bootleggers/'  Then,  in  payment  for  my 
pleasantry,  I had  to  explain  in  detail  the  mechanics 
of  the  term,  as  it  were.  But  when  finally  he  grasped 
the  story  of  the  origin  of  the  phrase,  the  result  was  worth 
while.  He  broke  into  a roar  of  laughter  that  fairly 
shook  the  verandah  rafters,  and  quivered  like  a vast 
jelly.  Then  he  explained  with  vivid  pantomime  to  the 
gathered  loungers  and  they  joined  in  his  bellowing  mirth. 
Judging  from  the  exhibition,  “ piernas  del  botas  ” is 
now  adopted  into  the  language  at  Texistepeque. 

The  same  muchacho  who  had  effected  the  changing  of 
the  billete  led  us  to  a little  adobe  hut  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  where  an  old  woman  listened  to  the  order  of 
the  Jefe  Politico  respectfully,  and  set  out  a meal.  She 
accepted  and  smoked  our  cigarettes  as  smilingly  as  she 
gave  us  the  best  her  larder  afforded.  When  we  had 
eaten  she  squatted  once  more  upon  the  dirt-floor  of  the 
cabin,  with  a favourite  cur  at  her  side  and  a green 
parakeet  on  a rude  perch  near-by,  and  took  up  her 
interrupted  task  of  rolling  small  cigars.  When  we  told 
her  that  she  was  a cook  without  rival  she  would  have 
blushed,  but  that  her  Colorado  claro  complexion  prevented, 
and  told  us,  in  effect,  to  “ quit  kidding  her."  But  the 
price  of  the  meal — given  immediately  following  the 
compliment — was  very  moderate  ! 

Two  bare  cots  in  the  yard  behind  the  cabin — rectangu- 
lar frameworks  with  the  same  lattice-work  of  rawhide 
thongs  as  that  of  our  beds  at  Santa  Ana — were  indicated 


196  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


as  our  beds  for  the  night.  Even  when  we  covered  the 
thongs  with  the  hammocks  and  rolled  in  them,  and 
covered  ourselves  with  all  the  spare  clothing  from  our 
packs,  we  were  too  chilled  by  the  keen  mountain  air  to 
sleep  except  in  broken  snatches.  Then  the  dogs,  the 
chickens,  pigeons  and  guinea-fowl  of  the  neighbourhood 
disputed  possession  with  us,  and  a disreputable  sow, 
wandering  in  after  midnight,  overturned  Norm’s  cot. 
We  were  ready  to  leave  by  three,  but  it  was  nearly 
six  when  the  old  woman  began  to  move  about  inside 
the  cabin. 

It  required  such  a time  to  get  the  fire  going  in  the  mud 
beehive  that  the  sun,  rising  in  business-like  fashion 
at  six- thirty,  found  us  just  sitting  down  to  our  meal  of 
fried  bananas,  cold  tortillas  and  frijoles  and  coffee.  We 
paid  our  score  of  forty  centavos,  shook  hands  very 
gravely  with  our  hostess  and  were  off,  striding  through  the 
marvellous  coolness  that  would  so  soon  be  replaced  by 
a heat  like  that  of  a furnace  seven  times  heated. 

Others  were  upon  the  camino  before  us — mule-trains, 
soft-eyed  women  and  girls  upon  horses  and  mules, 
accompanied  either  by  their  lords  and  masters  or  by 
respectful  mozos  who  frowned  upon  the  passers-by  who, 
like  Norm,  stared  too  long  at  the  fair  riders. 

Sturdy  women  of  the  peon  class,  their  bright-hued 
mantillas  serving  more  the  purpose  of  head-pad  than 
hood,  swung  along  with  that  graceful  carriage  that  comes 
from  bearing  head-burdens,  or  perched  upon  the  top  of 
huge  packs  surmounting  ancient  caballos  or  tiny  mules. 

As  we  moved  over  the  brown,  hard  road  at  a steady, 
mile-eating  pace,  with  the  jays  squalling  at  us  from  road- 
side trees,  watching  this  busy  road  before  us,  I thought 
of  Kim  and  his  lama,  following  the  roads  of  India  ; knew 
the  urge  that  keeps  the  wanderer  on  the  trail. 


PAGES  FROM  “GIL  BLAS  ” 


197 


Many  times  before  I bad  felt  the  yearning  to  follow 
unknown  roads  through  new  countries,  the  vague,  yet 
powerful  emotion  that  comes  with  hearing  the  wild  goose 
cry,  but  never  before  had  it  seemed  to  be  so  definite  a 
thing.  I could  analyse,  dissect  it — almost,  that  marvel- 
lous morning. 

So  we  went  on  toward  the  mountains  that  loomed 
against  the  northern  sky,  the  nearer  peaks  sharply  out- 
lined against  the  clear  blue,  with  wisps  of  snowy  cloud 
floating  lazily  about  the  summits,  while  farther 
ranges  piled  shoulder  after  shoulder  in  hazy,  lavender 
masses  in  the  far  distance,  until  sky  and  mountain-crest 
became  one,  indistinguishable. 

As  we  went  we  stepped  into  the  footprints  of  this  pro- 
cession that  might  have  walked  from  the  pages  of  my  old 
Gil  Bias,  swarthy,  red-petticoated  women  and  all.  Up 
one  incline  and  down  the  next,  so  ran  the  trail,  for  we 
had  reached  the  foothills.  Eight  o’clock  saw  us  ap- 
proaching Santamicion,  a half-dozen  pole-walled,  palm- 
thatched  huts  drowsing  life  away  beside  the  highway. 
At  a roadside  bakery  of  the  village  we  halted  to  buy 
bananas — guineas,  she  called  them — and  dry,  flour- meal 
cakes  from  a strapping,  coquettish  woman.  Then  we 
marched  on,  eating  as  we  went. 

At  noon  we  turned  into  the  yard  of  the  Hacienda  San 
Francisco,  a large  cattle-ranch,  and  sat  down  upon  a 
verandah  edge  to  watch  the  women  in  the  cook-house. 
They  were  baking  tortillas  on  wholesale  scale,  and  as  the 
flat  cakes  came  out  of  the  kitchen  two  mozos  piled  them 
in  an  ox-cart.  We  saw  the  cart  go  creaking  off  toward 
the  distant  potreros,  laden  with  the  tortillas  to  the  height 
of  four  feet  above  the  side-boards,  the  “ chuck-wagon  ” 
of  the  hacienda,  carrying  supplies  to  men  at  work  on  the 
distant  ranges.  As  we  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  verandah 


198  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

the  foreman  trotted  up  on  a great  bay  mule,  and  of  him 
we  asked  breakfast. 

The  Spanish  word  for  “ gentleman,”  caballero,  when 
literally  translated  means  “ a man  on  a horse.”  The 
inference  is  that  gentlemen  never  walk.  We  were 
afoot,  therefore  we  could  not  be  gentlemen.  So  ran 
the  foreman’s  ratiocination.  Bueno ! To  the  cook- 
house he  sent  us  to  eat  with  the  peones.  The  meal  was 
good  and  the  woman  who  served  us  both  cleanly  and 
courteous,  so  when  we  couldn’t  prevail  upon  the  fore- 
man to  accept  pay  for  the  food  we  presented  the  cook 
with  a half-peso  and  went  on.  We  were  as  content  as 
if  we  had  been  invited  to  join  the  company  we  could 
see  through  an  open  window,  gathered  about  the  snowy 
table  in  the  big  house. 

Only  too  often,  not  only  in  Salvador,  but  in  our  own 
land  as  well,  the  sweat- soaked  labourer  of  the  cabana 
is  a more  interesting  individual  than  his  “ superiors  ” 
in  the  casa  grande.  The  two  invalided  savoneras  who 
had  eaten  with  us  in  the  kitchen,  with  the  tales  of  their 
wounds — surely  they  had  been  more  interesting  than 
anything  we  could  have  heard  at  the  ranch-owner’s 
formal  table. 

The  little,  squatty  chap  with  the  cherubic  face  and 
easy,  brilliant  smile — he  had  come  within  an  inch  of 
decapitation  by  the  machete  of  a guaro- crazed  comrade, 
in  a drunken  brawl  over  a girl ; his  own  machete  had 
been  out  that  day,  though  his  boyish  face  gave  little 
promise  of  murderous  wrath.  His  companion  had  met 
a tigre  in  a jungl e-potrero  ; he  had  killed  the  brute  with 
his  machete,  but  his  horribly  scarred  face  gave  token 
of  the  length  of  tigre- claws.  Reflecting  upon  this,  I 
couldn’t  feel  that  we  had  missed  anything  by  going  to 
the  peon  quarters. 


CENTRAL  AMERICAN  MULETEERS  199 

The  mulateros’  labour,  unlike  that  of  the  other  classes 
of  Central  America,  seems  to  go  on  from  dawn  to  dark. 
While  their  compatriots  were  asleep  in  the  shade  of  the 
cabins  the  muleteers  came  striding  through  the  thick, 
brown  dust  behind  their  weary  beasts,  brigand-like 
figures  in  broad,  straw  hats,  thin,  pyjama- like  suits  of 
faded  and  tattered  blue  denim  and  rude  rawhide  sandals 
which,  like  the  American  Indian  on  the  warpath,  they 
seem  to  manufacture  as  they  go.  They  lead  a roving, 
vagabond  existence,  sleeping  wherever  night  overtakes 
them,  the  boys  apparently  growing  up  on  the  march, 
for  with  every  mule-train  we  saw  these  miniature 
mulateros  with  their  fathers,  replicas  in  every  detail 
from  hat  to  sandals  and  machete  of  their  elders. 

Beneath  the  trees  overhanging  the  Rio  San  Francisco, 
a mile  or  so  beyond  the  hacienda  where  we  had  been, 
Lazarus-like,  suitors  for  the  scraps  from  the  rich  man’s 
table,  we  came  upon  a mule-train  halted  for  the  midday 
meal.  Slatternly  women  were  busied  about  the  cooking- 
fires,  warming  frijoles  and  boiling  plantains  for  their 
lords.  The  company — except  for  the  absence  of  fire- 
arms— bore  a striking  resemblance  to  one  of  the  Mexican 
“ armies  ” I had  often  seen  in  Sonora,  and  were  no 
more  hostile  in  their  greetings. 

The  heat  proved  effective  brake  to  our  legs  that 
blazing  afternoon.  We  walked  very  slowly,  making 
frequent  halts  at  the  cabins  which  were  scattered  along 
the  trail  here  to  ask  for  water.  The  canteen  seemed 
to  hold  nothing ; a swallow  apiece  and  it  was  drained 
— while  we  remained  thirsty.  The  stagnant  air  fairly 
scorched  the  skin  and  the  white  road  glared  like  molten 
metal  beneath  the  low-hanging  sun,  until  the  eyeballs 
ached  from  the  strain  of  staring  down  it. 

Past  the  river  it  seemed  a land  deserted.  The  whole 


200  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

landscape  was  empty  of  life  in  whatever  direction  we 
turned ; the  people,  the  animals,  even  the  birds,  had 
searched  out  the  coolest  spots  they  knew  and  waited 
for  evening  to  bring  relief.  They  gave  us  water  reluc- 
tantly ; apparently  because  of  the  exertion  entailed  in 
the  effort.  But  we  came  to  a large,  well-built  house 
set  in  a stony  brown  clearing  beside  the  road,  where 
the  inhabitants  seemed  heedless  of  the  heat  which 
prostrated  their  neighbours. 

A man  sprawled  on  the  dilapidated  verandah,  with  a 
bottle  beside  him.  When  we  asked  for  water  he 
extended  the  flask,  then  shrugged  indifferently  when 
we  refused,  and  hallooed  to  the  rioting  folk  inside,  who 
were  singing,  just  then,  in  a maudlin  drone.  A slatternly 
girl  of  fifteen  or  so,  half-naked,  who  kept  her  arm 
across  her  breasts  in  some  faint  concession  to  modesty, 
brought  us  a gourdful  of  water. 

The  house  itself,  which  was  modelled  on  modern  lines 
far  superior  to  the  cabins  we  had  seen  along  the  road, 
seemed  so  out  of  keeping  with  its  animalish  tenants 
that  I inquired  its  history.  Evidently  it  was  a well- 
worn  theme.  He  took  another  jolt  from  the  flask  and 
told  us  how  a wealthy  young  man  of  Santa  Ana,  who 
held  this  and  much  other  land  in  the  region,  had  built 
the  house  and  laid  out  elaborate  grounds  for  his  prospec- 
tive bride.  But  the  girl  had  jilted  him,  and  the  youth 
had  sworn  that  the  estate  which  was  to  have  been  a 
monument  to  the  girl’s  supposed  virtues  should  never 
be  occupied  by  “ good  people.”  It  should  be  turned 
over  to  his  peones  and  its  increasing  dilapidation  would 
serve  as  sign-manual  of  her  real  character. 

We  looked  inside,  at  the  filthy  pallets  thrown  upon 
filthier  floors,  at  the  drunken  huddle  of  brutish  men 
and  blowsy,  half-naked  women,  at  the  two  scrawny, 


A BATHE  IN  THE  RIO  DESAGUA  201 

pimply-faced  babies  asprawl  upon  piles  of  rags  in  the 
corner,  and  decided  that,  if  the  appearance  of  the  place 
was  any  indication  of  the  fickle  one’s  true  character, 
the  young  man  should  have  rejoiced  at  his  escape. 

In  mid-afternoon  came  a glimpse  of  water  to  the 
nor’ west.  Balboa,  in  his  journeyings  about  Central 
America,  had  at  least  an  idea  of  what  lay  before  him, 
but  we  were  only  amateur  Columbuses,  at  best,  with  a 
map  whose  chief  claim  to  distinction  was  its  absolute, 
unfailing  inaccuracy. 

A passing  hombre  informed  us  that  we  looked  upon 
Lake  Huija,  which,  fed  by  the  Rio  Desagua,  forms  a 
portion  of  the  boundary  between  Salvador  and  Guate- 
mala. A mile  farther  and  we  heard  the  unmistakable 
sound  of  running  water  from  behind  the  leafy  screen  on 
the  right  of  the  road.  We  parted  the  branches,  looked 
down,  and  saw  below  us  the  Rio  Desagua,  a narrow, 
crystal-clear  stream. 

Without  heeding  the  pair  of  giggling  girls  riding  past, 
we  scrambled  down  to  the  river-bank  and  undressed 
joyously  beside  a long,  deep  pool. 

A great  alligator  floating  placidly  fifty  yards  down- 
stream had  no  terrors  for  us.  We  laid  the  six-guns  on 
the  bank  within  reach  and  splashed  away  dirt  and 
fatigue  in  the  cool  water.  When  we  were  dressed  and 
once  more  upon  the  road,  we  felt  as  if  we  had  just 
commenced  the  tramp.  Also,  we  had  developed  a most 
amazing  appetite — apiece. 

At  a booth  near  the  river  a girl  sold  ginger- cakes  at 
a centavo  each,  and  by  the  presentation  of  a cigarette 
to  a friendly  mozo  in  charge  of  a squealing  herd  of  swine, 
we  got  the  information  that  the  Hacienda  San  Diego 
lay  but  a half-league  distant.  The  road  was  like  most 
caminos  of  Central  America — a mere  cleared  track 


202  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

across  the  country,  rocky  and  choked  with  dust,  seeming 
to  twist  out  of  its  course  to  find  a hill  to  climb.  But 
with  the  sinking  of  the  sun  had  come  a pleasant  coolness 
and  Norm’s  watch  proclaimed  that  it  was  an  even 
quarter-hour  later  that  we  stood  on  the  verandah  of 
the  hacienda  and  asked  for  hospitality. 

The  son  of  our  host  had  been  educated  in  California 
and  he  knew  San  Francisco  as  well  as  we.  He  jingled 
up  as  we  sat  at  comida  in  the  verandah,  accompanied 
by  a group  of  happy-go-lucky  young  folk.  Most  of  the 
young  men  had  degrees  from  American  or  English 
colleges  and  they  made  us  feel  very  much  at  home  that 
evening. 

After  the  meal  we  went  in  a body  to  the  sugar-making. 
Here  the  peones  of  Senor  Valiente  boiled  panela,  the 
crude  brown  sugar  of  the  poor,  in  the  red  glare  of  a 
wood  fire.  The  mill  was  most  primitive  ; two  corru- 
gated iron  rollers  set  upright  in  a rude  frame  and  turned 
by  a cog  in  opposite  directions.  Stalks  of  cane  were 
thrust  between  these  rollers,  the  oxen  which  supplied 
the  motive-power  commenced  circling  about  the  mill, 
drawing  the  beam  that  turned  the  cog  and  the  rollers, 
and  the  juice  from  the  pressed  cane  dripped  into  a 
container  underneath. 

The  ground  for  yards  about  the  mill  was  carpeted 
with  the  dry,  pressed  stalks,  a soft,  fragrant  mattress. 
We  sprawled  at  full-length  to  watch  the  boiling.  Here 
a great  iron  kettle,  filled  with  sap,  was  set  over  an  open 
fire,  which  was  fed  with  dry  stalks  by  a bare-breasted 
Amazon  as  stolid  of  eye  as  the  oxen  turning  the  press. 
But  when  the  flickering  firelight  struck  gleams  from  her 
eyeballs,  she  was  transformed  for  the  moment ; she 
became  a pagan  vestal  virgin  tending  the  sacrificial 
flame  upon  a teocallis  of  her  bloody  ancestral  gods. 


METAPAN  AT  DAWN 


203 


Young  Valiente  informed  us  that  the  sugar- making 
was  his  mother’s  private  industry,  out  of  the  proceeds 
of  which  she  was  invariably  wheedled  and  threatened 
by  the  priests,  who  came  regularly  to  visit  her  as  soon 
as  the  panela  was  sold. 

“ When  I get  my  hands  on  this  property,”  said  the 
youngster  emphatically,  “ what  the  priests  get  they  will 
be  able  to  put  in  one  eye ! ” 

Despite  the  protests  of  our  hosts  we  swung  our 
hammocks  between  the  verandah-posts  and  made  our 
farewells  that  evening,  for  Metapan  lay  only  a league 
to  the  north  and  we  planned  a pre-sunrise  departure, 
much  as  we  liked  our  entertainment. 

We  woke  punctually  at  four  as  we  had  planned  and 
found  coffee  and  cold  tortillas  ready  for  us  in  a cabin 
near  the  big  house,  as  young  Valiente  had  promised. 
The  inky,  scalding  liquid  fairly  shocked  us  into  wake- 
fulness and  we  set  off  at  a racing  pace  for  Metapan. 

Dawn  broke  just  as  we  came  to  the  town.  There  was 
smoke  rising  from  the  tiled  roof  of  the  first  low,  white 
house,  and  we  stopped  to  ask  for  coffee  and  food.  As 
we  finished  the  meal  and  came  again  into  the  street 
an  apologetic  little  policeman  greeted  us  and  escorted 
us  to  the  comandancia,  where  the  Comandante,  having 
first  put  on  his  coat  with  the  epaulets  upon  it  and 
buckled  on  his  sword,  inspected  our  pasaportes.  Since 
we  showed  no  other  arms  than  the  silver-hilted  sheath- 
knife  at  my  belt,  we  were  bowed  out  of  The  Presence 
and  granted  permission  to  proceed. 

Except  in  size,  as  I have  remarked  before,  the  average 
Central  American  pueblo  might  have  been  poured  out 
of  the  same  mould  as  its  neighbours  up  and  down  the 
road.  The  difference  is  usually  in  the  size.  Unless 
some  peculiarity  in  the  nature  of  the  country  has  caused 


204  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


a change  in  the  customary  plan  of  town-building — 
development,  rather — there  will  be  the  same  rows  of 
one-storied  whitewashed  adobe  or  stone  houses  and 
shops  converging  upon  a central  plaza,  with  the  pole- 
walled,  palm-thatched  huts  of  the  poor  on  the  ragged 
outskirts  of  the  pueblo.  The  spires  of  the  churches 
frown  down  upon  the  plazas  in  every  town  I have  seen, 
and  it  seems  most  fitting  that  the  pleasuring  of  these 
people,  whose  lives  are  so  overshadowed  by  the  padres , 
should  be  done  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  church-tower. 

The  road  out  of  Metapan  was  smooth — for  a time. 
We  swung  on,  uphill  and  downhill,  hemmed  in  always 
by  the  brown  mountains,  sometimes  on  a plateau  as 
level  as  a billiard  table — and  as  green — then  dropping 
into  a fertile  little  valley  and  laboriously  climbing  out 
again.  We  were  drenched  with  perspiration  and  our 
faces  fairly  leaked  water  that  dripped  from  the  points 
of  our  mustachios  and  soaked  the  hammock  rolls. 

Foot-passengers  were  few  on  this  wild  stretch  of  the 
Camino  Real  to  Zacapa,  Guatemala.  Mule-trains  still 
passed  us  frequently,  laden  with  packages  of  all  shapes 
lashed  to  the  saw-buck  pack-saddles.  The  mules,  it 
seemed  to  me,  enjoyed  the  marvellous  vistas  across  the 
deep  canons  less  than  anyone  else  in  all  of  Salvador, 
though  Norm  was  beginning  to  say  all  sorts  of  unprint- 
able things  about  scenery. 

But  it  was  worth  all  the  trouble  of  the  ascent  to 
sprawl  upon  one’s  back  on  a grassy  knoll  on  “ the  roof 
of  the  world  ” and  watch  the  fleecy  cirrus  clouds  float 
across  the  serene  blue  heaven.  There  was  an  elemental 
quiet  in  these  regions  which  made  it  seem  impossible 
that  wfithin  a few  miles,  comparatively,  were  bustling, 
thriving  cities.  One  found  the  frame  of  mind  for 
meditation.  A zopilote  or  two  hanging  like  stuffed  birds 


OUT- WALKING  THE  MULE- TRAINS  205 


high  overhead ; the  rustle  of  the  grass  under  the  light 
breeze  ; otherwise  no  sign  nor  sound  of  life. 

There  seems  to  be  something  about  existence  in  the 
mountains  which  marks  the  hill-man  as  different  from 
his  compatriot  of  the  plains ; from  time  immemorial, 
history  tells  us,  a different  breed  has  dwelt  among  the 
peaks.  We  noted  that  the  muleteers  who  threaded  the 
mountain  passes  were  not  as  the  light-skinned,  bovine- 
featured  Salvadorans  of  the  coast.  They  strode  along 
behind  the  mule-trains  with  machetes  hanging  from 
their  belts  or  carried  beneath  their  arms ; their  straw 
hats  were  cocked  at  an  aggressive  angle  upon  their 
black  shock-heads  ; they  looked  the  passer-by  squarely, 
even  pugnaciously,  in  the  eye. 

We  passed  a mule- train  unburdened  save  for  the 
empty  pack-saddles,  upon  which  nearly  a dozen 
brigandish  figures  perched.  A mile  farther  there  was 
a jingling  and  shouting  behind  us  and  the  train  clattered 
up  at  a spanking  trot.  We  drew  well  out  of  the  trail ; 
but  when  half  the  mules  had  passed,  the  remainder  of 
the  train  closed  in  behind  us  and  halted  and  we  found 
ourselves  pocketed  with  our  backs  to  a low  cliff,  the 
riders  in  a semicircle  about  us.  They  sat  and  stared 
at  us,  and  we,  after  making  due  allowance  for  the  cir- 
cumstances, decided  without  hesitation  that  a more 
villainous  collection  of  faces  we  had  seldom  seen  at 
large. 

Their  capitan,  a burly  hornbre  of  impressive,  curled 
mustachios,  asked  us  if  we  cared  to  ride.  When  we 
declined,  he  inquired  if  we  had  money  to  buy  mules 
from  him.  Meanwhile  the  band  was  edging  closer,  with 
machetes  creeping  ominously  into  the  foreground. 

Our  six-shooters  were  holstered  beneath  our  shirts 
and  the  only  visible  weapon  we  bore  was  the  silver- 


206  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

hilted  hunting-knife  at  my  waist.  Their  attitude  was 
becoming  too  threatening  to  suit  us,  particularly  after 
having  been  filled  with  stories  of  bandits  wherever  we 
had  stopped  since  Santa  Ana.  We  looked  at  each  other 
furtively. 

“ I don’t  think  there’s  a gun  in  the  gang,”  said  Norm, 
and  after  a hasty  inspection  I agreed  with  him. 

The  captain  of  the  muleteers — or  bandits — was 
watching  us  intently.  Now  he  broke  in  to  command 
that  we  speak  Spanish — so  that  he  could  understand ! 
Also,  he  wanted  to  know  what  was  in  our  bundles.  This 
was  growing  entirely  too  much  like  banditry,  so  we 
produced  the  six-guns  with  motions  as  nearly  like  Bill 
Hart’s  as  we  could  contrive. 

The  gang  gave  back  hastily  before  the  gun-muzzles 
and  paused  hesitantly  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  trail. 
Their  indecision  strengthened  our  belief  that  they  were 
armed  only  with  the  machetes  and  daggers  we  could 
see  at  their  belts.  We  had  little  fear  that  they  would 
rush  us.  None  wished  to  be  the  first  to  collect  a bullet ; 
each  swarthy  rascal  urged  his  neighbour  toward  us,  but 
declined  to  lead  the  way. 

“ Tell  ’em  to  scat ! ” suggested  Norm,  and  I snapped 
out  a command  with  all  the  menace  I could  crowd  into 
the  word,  and  we  emphasized  the  order  with  motions 
of  gun-muzzles.  They  turned  back  in  the  direction 
from  which  they  had  come,  moving  slowly  and  looking 
back  at  us  often.  Then  Norm  the  Irrepressible  sent 
three  bullets  into  the  ground  at  their  mules’  heels  and 
the  retreat  became  a rout.  We  watched  the  cloud  of 
dust  disappear  in  the  distance,  then  hurried  on  toward 
the  north,  very  thankful  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  with 
no  more  difficulty. 

By  ten  o’clock  we  had  covered  fifteen  miles,  distancing 


A SUGAR-MILL 


207 


several  fast-walking  mule-trains.  So,  filled  with  the 
pride  of  performance  and  puffed  up  because  we  were 
lean  and  brown  and  hard  as  nails,  we  halted  at  the 
Hacienda  Zapote,  a rugged  sugar-farm  in  the  valley  we 
followed,  set  beside  a swift-flowing  mountain  stream, 
and  asked  for  hospitality. 

A sugar-mill  was  crushing  cane  for  the  boiling,  and 
while  we  waited  in  the  verandah  for  breakfast  we 
watched  the  congregated  children — each  with  a long 
stick  of  cane  at  his  lips — playing  about  the  press.  A 
shy  little  girl  set  out  eggs  and  black  beans,  tortillas, 
cheese  and  cafe  negro  upon  a rude  mahogany  table, 
then  brought  us  a great  plateful  of  pannella,  delicious 
molasses  candy  made  from  the  fresh  sap  of  the  cane. 

It  was  too  hot  upon  the  road  to  go  on,  so  we  hunted 
out  a quiet  pool  in  the  little  river  that  foamed  over  a 
rocky  bed  between  walls  of  green  undergrowth.  It 
was  evident,  from  the  attention  our  movement  attracted 
among  the  peones  at  the  mill,  that  the  stream  was  not 
ordinarily  used  for  such  utilitarian  purposes. 

The  troop  of  children  deserted  the  sugar-mill  and 
came  to  sit  comfortably  upon  the  bank  and  watch  us 
bathe  and  shave.  The  natives’  idea  of  modesty  not 
being  that  of  the  northern  races,  our  half-clothed 
condition  failed  to  shock  them.  They  commented  in 
whispers  upon  our  razors,  the  shaving  brush  and  metal 
mirror.  The  last  was  much  admired  by  the  little  girls. 
Throughout  the  trip  it  was  Norm’s  delight  to  hold  the 
mirror  carelessly  and  then,  by  apparent  accident,  let 
it  fall.  There  was  always  a gasp  of  consternation  from 
the  onlookers,  followed  by  a low  murmur  of  astonish- 
ment at  sight  of  it  lying  unbroken. 

In  early  afternoon  the  heat  had  somewhat  subsided, 
so  we  shouldered  our  hammock  rolls  and  said  good-bye 


208  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

to  the  hospitable  folk  of  Zapote.  The  narrow  trail 
zigzagged  insanely  up  the  mountain- side  toward  the 
frontera,  in  ascents  almost  impossible  to  the  mule- 
trains. 

All  the  landscape  before  us  was  mountainous.  To 
the  right  and  left  and  straight  ahead  lay  chain  after 
mountain  chain,  the  marshalled  ramparts  of  the 
Cordilleras.  From  where  we  stood  on  the  trail  above 
Zapote  we  might  look  down  into  fifty  narrow,  deep 
valleys,  each  inhabited,  where  the  rank  green  of  the 
sugarcane  blotched  the  russet  brown  of  the  surrounding 
slopes. 

There  were  inclines  where  we  had  to  dig  in  our  toes 
and  fight  for  each  inch  of  ground  gained,  only  to  slip 
and  slide  down  the  other  side — and  climb  again.  We 
panted  up  the  long  slope  of  a mountain  toward  the 
crest  that  reared  tantalizingly  before  us  and,  attaining 
it,  found  that  it  was  only  a tiny,  projecting  knob  jutting 
upward  from  the  mountain-side,  and  the  peak  was  as 
elusively  distant,  apparently,  as  when  we  started. 

But  pie  por  pie — foot  by  foot — goes  the  traveller  in 
the  mountains,  according  to  the  native  saying,  and 
pie  por  pie  we  were  struggling  toward  our  goal,  though 
sometimes  that  seemed  hard  to  believe. 

So,  with  perspiration  oozing  from  every  pore,  soaking 
khaki  trousers  and  flannel  shirt  and  even  seeping 
through  the  oil-tanned  leather  of  our  boots,  we 
scrambled  down  a rocky  slope  and  broke  through  the 
wall  of  green  jungle  that  hedged  the  Rio  Seba.  This 
was  more  or  less  a solemn  moment,  for  the  stream 
marked  the  boundary  between  Salvador  and  Guatemala. 
We  approached  the  stepping-stones  gravely,  then  Norm 
slipped  and  measured  his  length  in  the  shallow  water 
and  all  gravity  was  banished.  We  skipped  across  like 


KEttl 


ROADSIDE  BAKERY.  SAXTAMIPIOX. 


GRIXDIXG  SUGAR-CANE,  HACIEXDA  ZAPOTE,  NEAR  GUATEMALAN  FRONTIER. 


208] 


“ THE  LAST  FRONTIER  ” 


209 


schoolboys  and  sat  down  to  smoke  a cigarette  on  the 
soil  of  Guatemala.  Like  Huckleberry  Finn,  Norm 
remarked  upon  the  fact  that  the  country  was  green, 
wrhile  on  the  map  it  was  coloured  yellow. 

Alotepeque  Ermita,  we  had  been  told  at  Zapote,  lay 
a league  north  of  the  frontier,  the  first  Guatemalan  town 
on  the  road.  A legua  seemed  only  a step  or  two,  so  we 
went  leisurely  along  the  trail,  pausing  often  upon  the 
hill-tops  to  look  over  the  country.  For  three  leagues 
we  traversed  a fertile  land,  where  in  the  tiny  valleys 
and  by  the  roadside  the  grass,  watered  by  springs  that 
gushed  everywhere  from  the  rocks,  was  vividly  green,  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  barren  brown  stretches  of 
Northern  Salvador. 

At  dusk  we  came  into  Alotepeque,  only  to  be  told  that 
there  were  two  towns  of  this  name,  Alotepeque  “ Viejo,” 
or  “ Old  Alotepeque,”  and  Alotepeque  “ Ermita.”  We 
had  still  a league  to  go  to  reach  the  latter. 

Darkness  fell  as  we  stumbled  along  the  rocky  way 
beyond  “ Viejo.”  The  “ una  legua  ” was  stretching 
marvellously,  it  seemed,  and  there  was  never  a sign  of 
habitation.  Then,  from  the  utter,  utter  darkness  ahead 
sounded  the  rattling  challenge  of  a single  dog- voice.  We 
laughed  suddenly,  together,  for  the  same  recollection 
had  come  to  us  both  at  the  sound. 

On  the  steamer  coming  south  we  had  listened  often 
to  an  old  Norwegian  windjammer  skipper’s  arraignment 
of  coastwise  masters.  Invariably  he  wound  up  his 
volley  with  the  disgusted  roar  : 

“ Along  te  coast  you  go,  andt  you  say,  ‘ Py  Yiminy ! 
T’ere’s  te  old  Newfoundland  barking.  Py  Yupiter  ! 
Ve’re  off  Point  Lobos ! ’ Yah ! Dog-barking  navi- 
gators ! ” 

We  were  much  the  same,  down  there  on  the  tortuous, 

14 


210  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

thread-narrow  trails,  whenever  the  darkness  found  us 
still  abroad.  There  were  seldom  lights  in  the  native 
huts,  save,  perhaps,  a faint  flicker  of  red  firelight  glimpsed 
through  the  cabin’s  airy  walls.  So  we  listened  eagerly 
for  any  such  token  of  civilization  (inhabitation,  I should 
have  said)  as  a dog’s  bark. 

We  stumbled  onward,  to  emerge  from  the  trees  a 
hundred  yards  farther  on  and  reach  a tiny  clearing 
beside  the  trail.  The  dog  retreated  before  us  until  he 
was  behind  the  hut,  keeping  up  a vocal  rearguard  action 
as  he  went.  Some  of  the  same  suspicion  that  seemed  to 
tinge  his  warning  of  our  approach  showed  in  the  seamed 
and  dusky  face  of  the  old  witch  we  found  huddled  over 
the  cooking-fire  within. 

She  had  nada — nothing — to  eat,  she  mumbled ; but 
Norm,  the  explorer  and  forager  of  experience,  unearthed 
a gourd- dish  full  of  cold  frijoles  and  a stack  of  foot- wide 
tortillas  which,  though  leathery,  wTere  edible.  She  gave 
up  the  battle  then,  and  brought  out  coffee,  as  black  as 
ink  and  twice  as  strong.  The  dog  sneaked  in  and 
watched  from  a corner  as  we  ate,  showing  his  teeth  at 
every  sudden  move  we  made. 

Two  and  a half  reales  the  old  woman  set  as  the  price 
of  her  hospitality.  She  grumbled  exceedingly  because 
we  had  no  Guatemalan  currency  and  must  pay  her  in 
silver  of  Salvador.  For  two  more  reales  we  might  swing 
our  hammocks  in  the  hut,  but  we  had  been  watching 
her  busy  fingers  until  a sympathetic  crinkling  of  the  spine 
had  warned  us  that  the  hut  was  already  overcrowded.  We 
shouldered  our  rolls  and  went  on  up  the  road  to  a potrero, 
where  we  could  swing  the  hammocks  between  two  trees. 

The  air  of  the  highlands  was  thin  and  very  cool ; our 
bedroom,  beside  a mountain  brook  and  behind  a screen 
of  bushes  that  hid  us  from  passers-by  upon  the  trail,  was 


RED-TAPE  AT  ERMITA 


211 


too  well  ventilated,  even  though  we  slept  “ boots  and 
saddles.”  Nothing  more  alarming  than  a curious  cow 
wandering  up  shortly  after  midnight  disturbed  us,  but  we 
shivered  under  the  lash  of  a high,  chill  wind. 

Before  daybreak  we  were  ready  for  the  march,  and  as 
soon  as  the  east  was  grey  enough  to  show  us  our  road 
we  shouldered  the  packs  and  set  out. 

Evidently  the  Comandante  of  Alotepeque  Ermita  bore 
a reputation  for  severity  throughout  the  region,  for  every 
hombre  we  passed,  every  'peon  at  his  cabin  door,  shouted 
after  us  that  we  could  not  pass  Ermita  unless  we  had  local 
passports. 

A quarter-hour  of  brisk  tramping  brought  us  to  the 
town,  which  was  a trifle  larger  than  “ Viejo,”  but  the 
same  straggling,  poverty-stricken  clutter  of  adobe  and 
pole-walled  shacks.  It  was  plain  that  our  approach 
had  been  heralded,  for  the  soldiers  standing  guard  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  hamlet  shouted  to  us  as  soon  as  we  drew 
within  hearing  that  El  Capitan  Felipe  Sellama  awaited 
us  at  the  comandancia.  As  a matter  of  record,  he  came 
to  meet  us  in  the  little  plaza. 

He  had  been  so  held  up  to  us  as  a martinet  that  we 
anticipated  some  such  difficulty  as  that  at  Playa  Grande, 
but  he  merely  inspected  our  local  passports — he  confessed 
that  he  “ had  no  English  ” — and  asked  why  we  had  not 
reached  Ermita  the  night  before,  as  he  had  expected 
us  to  do  ! So  doe3  news  of  a gringo  precede  him  in 
Guatemala. 

We  explained  that  we  had  tired  of  walking  and  so  had 
slept  beside  the  road.  Captain  Sellama  gave  a little 
“ tchk  ” of  disapproval  at  this.  He  told  us  of  the  murder 
of  two  Englishmen  a fortnight  before  on  the  road  between 
Ermita  and  Concepcion,  the  next  town,  giving  us 
sanguinary  details  of  the  manner  in  which  the  murderers 


212  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


had  first  disembowelled  and  then  decapitated  the  luck- 
less Britons.  Our  apparent  lack  of  arms — which,  he 
explained,  he  would  have  been  compelled  to  confiscate 
had  we  borne  them  ! — gave  an  added  depth  of  earnest- 
ness to  his  lecture. 

When  we  asked  for  food  Captain  Sellama  sent  us  to 
his  own  house,  the  largest  in  the  village,  and  sat  by  while 
we  ate,  surrounded  by  a dozen  or  so  of  ragamuffins  evi- 
dently very  much  under  the  Comandante  s thumb,  who 
hung  upon  his  slightest  word. 

After  eating,  mindful  of  the  difficulties  which  had  beset 
us  in  Salvador  because  of  our  lack  of  small  notes,  we 
inquired  of  the  Comandante  where  we  could  exchange 
the  Salvadoran  money  we  still  possessed  for  currency  of 
Guatemala.  Sellama  directed  one  of  the  interested 
citizens  squatted  near-by  to  effect  el  cambiar. 

The  monetary  system  of  Guatemala  is  the  most  mar- 
vellous of  any  in  vogue  in  the  Five  Republics.  Exchange 
varies  with  the  locality,  with  the  intelligence  of  the 
parties  to  the  transaction,  with  the  time  of  day  and  the 
state  of  the  weather,  I verily  believe. 

The  citizen  addressed  by  El  Comandante — who  looked 
as  if  he  could  have  taken  the  pauper’s  oath  at  a moment’s 
notice,  without  any  additional  preparation — reached 
within  his  ragged  coat  and  from  an  inside  pocket  pro- 
duced a bundle  of  tattered,  filthy  paper  money  fully 
eight  inches  thick.  With  the  Salvadoran  five-peso  note 
on  the  ground  before  him  he  began  to  strip  Guatemalan 
billetes  of  one,  two  and  five  pesos  from  his  packet. 
Exchange  was  twenty  pesos  for  an  American  dollar  that 
morning — the  sun  was  now  shining  brightly — so  we 
received  fifty  Guatemalan  pesos  for  the  Salvadoran  note. 

The  Comandante  refused  to  let  us  go  on  without  an 
escort.  He  raised  his  voice  in  a shrill  yell,  and  one  of  the 


OUR  ESCORT  TO  CONCEPCION 


213 


soldados  within  the  comandancia  downstreet  came  at  the 
double.  This  soldier  was  to  accompany  us  to  Concepcion, 
to  guard  us  from  the  perils  of  the  road.  We  felt  greatly 
comforted  by  his  escort,  for  he  was  nearly  fourteen  years 
of  age,  almost  as  tall  as  a short  rifle,  and  heavily  armed 
with  a pair  of  woven-grass  saddle-bags.  These  last  were 
the  marks  of  his  office,  I think.  When  we  had  bade 
Captain  Sellama  adios  and  were  striding  up  the  trail, 
the  little  soldier  plied  us  with  a rain  of  questions  : 

Was  it  true  that  we  intended  to  visit  Guatemala  City  ? 
He  had  never  been  there,  but  he  had  heard  that  it  was  a 
most  wonderful  place — muy  grande  ! 

We  were  Americanos  ? Then  perhaps  we  could  tell 
him  whether  the  story  of  Juan  Sanchez,  the  saddler,  was 
true.  He  had  heard  Sanchez  swear  by  the  Virgin  that 
in  a great  city  of  Los  Estados  Unidos,  called  “ Nuollins  ” 
(New  Orleans  ?),  were  houses  so  tall  that  one  had  to  lean 
back  and  stare  straight  upward  to  see  their  roofs.  But 
surely  this  was  a lie  of  the  baldest  variety,  for  why  should 
men  build  houses  like  mountains  ? 

Every  youth  of  fifteen  and  upward  must  serve  three 
months  a year  in  the  army.  We  had  heard  before  that 
the  volunteer  system  was  formerly  in  vogue — in  this 
wise  : When  Guatemala  was  mobilizing  her  troops  for 
war  wdth  Mexico,  some  years  back,  a corporal's  guard 
of  soldiers  arrived  in  Guatemala  City  bearing  a note  to 
the  Comandante  there  and  escorting  fifteen  men  tied  to- 
gether with  a long,  new  rope.  Shorn  of  its  Latin  floweri- 
ness of  salutation,  the  note  read  somewffiat  as  follows  : 

“ Senor, — I have  the  honour  to  transmit  herewith 
fifteen  volunteers  for  military  service.  More  will  follow. 
Please  return  the  rope.” 

We  kept  up  our  usual  road-gait  and  the  boy  was  alter- 
nately far  behind  or  panting  beside  us.  So  we  covered 


214  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

the  difficult  mountain  trail  and  came  to  the  outskirts  of 
Concepcion,  a picturesque  hamlet  of  perhaps  nine  hun- 
dred souls  nestling  in  a green  amphitheatre  among  russet 
mountains,  with  a crystal-clear  stream  curving  past  the 
southern  edge  of  the  pueblo.  At  the  ford  we  were  halted 
by  a youngster,  armed  with  a rifle  carved  from  wood, 
who  would  not  let  us  pass  until  our  guide  had  panted  up 
to  give  the  password.  It  was  given  in  a mysterious 
whisper,  but  I caught  a sound  suspiciously  like 
“ tortillas  ! ” 

At  the  whitewashed  comandancia,  fronting  on  the 
plaza  from  which  the  half-dozen  unpaved  streets  of  the 
town  rayed  out,  we  found  a major-general  in  command 
of  a garrison  of  some  twenty  ragged  Guatemalticos  of  all 
ages.  The  Second  Commandant  took  our  passports  and 
delivered  them,  with  a deep  bow,  to  the  hands  of  His 
Highness  the  Commandant  himself.  They  were  in- 
spected and  found  satisfactory,  then  we  asked  and 
received  permission  to  photograph  the  garrison — a privi- 
lege, incidentally,  not  often  granted  to  foreigners  by  the 
suspicious  Guatemalans. 

Diplomatic  relations  became  a trifle  strained  when  I 
told  the  Comandante  of  our  tilt  with  the  picket  at  the 
ford  and  inquired  whether  the  wooden  gun  was  rifle  or 
shotgun.  The  general  seemed  sensitive  on  the  subject 
of  armament. 

At  a little  shop  near  the  grass-grown  plaza  we  got 
cigarettes — thin,  white  cylinders  of  very  black  and  very 
powerful  tobacco,  which  were  bundled  together  in 
faggots  of  twenty.  They  were  very  inferior  to  the  black 
cigarettes  of  Salvador,  but  since  we  could  get  nothing 
else,  nor  papers  to  roll  the  Durham  purchased  in  San 
Salvador,  we  took  beggars’  choice.  When  we  asked  for 
cigarette  papers  the  shopkeeper  gave  us  “ No  hoy  ” 


A DIFFICULT  TRAIL 


215 


(“  Not  to-day”),  but  assured  us  that  in  Quezaltepeque 
we  would  find  great  shops  literally  filled  with  cigarette 
papers. 

Past  Concepcion  the  trail  was  almost  impassable. 
We  dug  in  our  toes  and  jammed  our  Stetsons  grimly 
over  our  ears,  alternately  climbing  breathlessly  and  slip- 
ping and  sliding  on  the  corresponding  descent.  At  noon 
the  trail  zigzagged  up  to  a grassy  tableland  wooded,  as 
were  the  black  hills  around,  with  great  pines  and  cedars. 
The  way  across  the  mesa  spread  out  until  it  was  nearly 
fifty  yards  wide,  and  comparatively  smooth.  It  brought 
us  soon  to  a little  hut  nestling  in  a sheltered  hollow 
among  the  trees,  and  the  woman  who  was  its  only  occu- 
pant at  the  time  set  out  hard  black  beans  in  gourd  bowls, 
with  hot  tortillas,  soft-boiled  eggs  and  cafe  negro.  Four 
pesos  the  meal  cost  us — the  equivalent  of  twenty  cents 
in  American  money. 

In  this  hut  was  not  a utensil  which  might  not  have 
belonged  to  the  five-hundred-years-dead  ancestors  of 
the  woman  who  fed  us.  Gourd  dishes  and  earthenware 
cooking- vessels  answered  the  woman’s  every  need.  The 
tortillas,  rolled  into  cylinders,  served  her,  as  they  had 
served  us,  for  fork  and  spoon.  The  mistress  of  the  hut 
herself,  with  a slight  change  or  two  of  costume,  might 
have  been  her  own  grandmother,  a dozen  times  removed  ; 
she  was  short  and  broad  of  shoulders,  muscled  like  a 
man,  with  features  of  the  pure  Indian  type,  chocolate- 
red  of  colouring  and  boldly  aquiline  of  cast.  She  spoke 
an  odd  patois  of  Spanish  and  Indian,  barely  understand- 
able except  with  the  aid  of  gestures  ; her  manner  was 
neither  friendly  nor  the  reverse,  but  rather  tolerant. 

As  we  sat  outside  her  door  and  smoked,  a party  of 
men — the  hook-nosed  Indians  of  the  region — came  up 
the  trail  from  the  north  and  stopped  to  stare  blankly 


216  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


at  us.  Two  of  them  bore  guns,  ancient,  long-barrelled 
smoothbores  with  percussion  caps ; the  others  had 
machetes  and  long-handled  billhooks,  half  axe,  half 
brush-knife.  They  held  a brief  discussion  in  the  Indian 
patois,  then  the  eldest  man  came  over  to  where  we  sat 
and  nodded  to  ‘us. 

He  asked  our  destination  and  our  nationality,  but 
made  no  comment.  After  a sharp  look  at  the  packs 
beside  us  he  put  a question  to  the  Indian  woman  in  the 
doorway  behind  us  and  she  grunted  in  apparent  affirma- 
tive, and  added  a brief  sentence  whose  purport  I didn’t 
get.  He  looked  again  at  our  packs,  then  returned  to 
his  fellows,  and  they  all  moved  off  on  a narrow  path 
shooting  off  at  left  angle  to  the  main  trail.  In  a moment 
or  two  all  were  out  of  sight  in  the  pines. 

We  rested  for  an  hour,  then  took  up  the  march  again 
along  the  broad  way  between  avenues  of  pines.  As  we 
reached  the  edge  of  the  mesa  where  the  trail  contracted 
again  and  led  downward  into  a valley,  we  turned  to 
look  back.  The  woman  was  leaning  in  her  doorway, 
staring  after  us,  but  her  face  was  blank  of  all  ex- 
pression. 

The  soil  of  the  trail  was  white  and  chalky,  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  huge  boulders  of  black,  volcanic  rock 
which  bordered  it.  Quezaltepeque,  the  woman  had 
told  us  with  aid  of  enumerating  fingers  and  blurred 
Spanish,  was  seven  leguas  ahead  of  us.  We  felt  as  if  we 
wore  the  fabled  seven-league  boots,  for  the  high,  keen 
air  of  the  mountains  was  invigorating  as  fine  wine,  and 
the  clouds  had  massed  about  the  peaks,  almost  obscuring 
the  sun.  A cool  wind  whipped  our  faces  on  the  high 
places. 

We  watched  the  trail  narrowly,  and  the  undergrowth 
along  it,  walking  with  thumb  hooked  in  open  shirt-front 


THE  “ CHIQUIMULIN  COUNTRY  ” 217 

near  to  revolver-butt.  For  this  region,  known  collo- 
quially as  the  “ Chiquimulin  Country,”  bears  an 
unsavoury  reputation.  The  inhabitants  are  chiefly  men 
with  a price  on  their  heads — thieves,  murderers,  army 
deserters ; every  criminal  who  can  escape  flies  to  the 
wooded  mountains  of  the  south  where  an  army  could 
hardly  capture  him. 

Mr.  Feeley,  an  old-timer  in  Guatemala,  had  advised 
us  in  Granada  not  to  attempt  crossing  this  region,  and 
had  I been  alone  it  is  probable  that  I should  have 
heeded  his  warning.  But  Norm,  once  he  learned  that 
there  was  prospect  of  excitement,  would  hear  of  no 
other  route,  so  we  had  adhered  to  the  itinerary  made 
in  Chinandega. 

There  were  few  wayfarers  in  this  neighbourhood,  no 
cabins  along  the  trail.  Occasionally  a fierce-eyed,  hook- 
nosed hombre  came  swinging  toward  us,  bearing  machete 
or  billhook,  shuffling  forward  at  a peculiar,  rapid  gait, 
half  dogtrot,  half  walk,  in  which  his  sandalled  feet 
barely  cleared  the  ground,  chanting  a monotonous- 
refrained  trail-song  as  accompaniment,  apparently,  to 
his  progress. 

A few  of  the  men  we  met  had  ancient  guns,  like  those 
of  the  party  which  had  halted  at  the  hut,  but  whether 
for  protection  or  for  hunting  we  couldn’t  tell.  However, 
when  in  a wild  spot  a couple  of  miles  beyond  our  halting- 
place  of  midday,  where  a great  heap  of  tumbled  rocks 
lay  beside  the  trail,  a gun-muzzle  projected  over  a 
boulder  and  the  word  “ Alto ! ” (Halt !)  sounded  sharply, 
we  decided  that  the  guns  were  carried  for  more  sinister 
purpose  than  mere  food-getting.  We  dropped  flat  and 
rolled  behind  a great  boulder  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  trail,  and  I shouted,  “ What  is  it  you  desire  ? ” 

“ Money ! ” came  the  reply,  and  the  voice  was 


218  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


suspiciously  like  that  of  the  man  who  had  spoken  to 
us  at  the  hut. 

From  what  we  could  see  of  this  gun,  it  was  like  all 
the  others  we  had  observed — of  the  type  which  is  about 
as  dangerous  to  the  person  firing  as  to  the  object  at 
which  aimed.  With  the  observation  some  part  of  our 
uneasiness  was  removed  and  we  worried  chiefly  over 
being  flanked  by  other  banditti  and  chopped  small.  It 
would  have  seemed  anti-climax  to  submit  tamely  to 
robbery  by  brigands  armed  with  these  smoothbores  of 
Revolutionary  vintage,  so  we  shoved  the  six-guns 
forward  and  put  a careful  shot  apiece  into  the  heap  of 
boulders  that  protected  the  highwaymen. 

One  bullet  struck  a rock  close  to  the  gun-muzzle  and 
there  ensued  a tremendous  explosion.  A hail  of  small 
shot  whistled  through  the  air  high  over  our  heads,  then 
the  muzzle  disappeared  suddenly  and  we  heard  the 
bushes  crackling  as  the  would-be  bandits  dashed  up  the 
mountain- side,  running  low  in  cover  of  the  underbrush, 
for  we  could  see  nothing  more  than  waving  bushes. 
We  sent  a few  shots  in  their  general  direction  to  harden 
their  idea  of  emigration,  then  pushed  on  rapidly  toward 
Quezaltepeque. 

A peon  at  work  in  a rock-walled  field  leaned  upon 
his  bill-hook  to  inform  us  dispassionately  that  it  was 
three  leagues  to  the  town,  but  that  the  road  was  no 
better  than  it  might  be.  We  stepped  out  with  renewed 
energy,  sure  that  the  last  half,  at  least,  of  the  mozo’s 
information  was  truth. 

Cabins  began  to  appear,  some  of  them  clinging  to 
tiny  fertile  spots  among  the  boulders  high  above  the 
trail,  some  near  the  road,  with  their  cultivated  fields  of 
maize  and  bananas  and  beans  a half-mile  almost  straight 
up  the  mountain-side  above  them.  The  road  was 


QUEZALTEPEQUE  219 

bounded  by  walls  of  the  black  volcanic  rock,  unmortared 
but  well  constructed,  and  we  wondered  at  this  unusual 
labour.  Even  the  little  fields  of  the  Indians  were 
enclosed  by  these  well-built  walls,  which  must  have 
required  many  days  of  industrious  labour  to  build,  for 
they  were  fully  four  feet  in  height  and  two  in  thickness. 

Nearly  all  the  cabins  were  walled  with  adobe  brick, 
for  the  reason,  we  supposed,  that  it  was  easier  to  handle 
than  the  stones.  But  the  framework  would  inevitably 
be  of  mahogany  beams ! It  reminded  me  of  that 
ancient  Texas  adage  anent  “ a thirty-dollar  hawss  an’ 
a hundred- dollar  saddle.” 

We  passed  several  groups  of  Indians  coming  home- 
ward from  their  little  fields  with  bill-hooks  upon  their 
shoulders,  and  women  trotting  along  the  trail  with  huge 
head-loads  of  bananas,  black  beans  or  maize.  None 
offered  or  returned  greeting. 

As  we  drew  near  to  Quezaltepeque,  glimpsed  in  the 
distant  valley  as  the  trail  rounded  a mountain  shoulder, 
co Ree-fincas  began  to  appear  among  the  pines  and  cedars 
of  the  hill-sides. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  town  was  an  enormous — con- 
sidering the  population  of  the  place — cemetery,  filled 
with  the  most  ornate  painted  monuments  I have  ever 
seen.  Adjoining  the  cemetery  was  a large  stone 
building  bearing  the  name  of  the  Dictator,  Manuel 
Estrada  Cabrera — of  whom  more  later — upon  its 
Grecian-Doric  front.  With  the  exception  of  the  ceme- 
tery and  this  incongruous  structure,  Quezaltepeque  was 
much  the  same  as  Concepcion,  with  narrow,  unpaved 
streets  lined  with  low,  white  buildings,  debouching  upon 
a central  plaza  which  was  nothing  more  than  a dusty 
open  space. 

We  got  food  at  a house  near  the  plaza,  where  a sign 


220  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


upon  the  house-front  announced  the  dwelling  of  a 
barbero  y cocinero — barber  and  cook  ! For  a considera- 
tion, the  slatternly,  expatriated  woman  of  Salvador 
who  seemed  to  own  the  place  permitted  us  to  swing 
our  hammocks  in  her  rear  verandah,  which  overlooked 
a stone  courtyard.  When  we  had  eaten  and  washed  in 
the  horse- trough,  we  turned  upstreet  for  a look  at  the 
town. 

The  country-people  had  come  to  town  to  attend  some 
fiesta — which  reminds  me  that  it  is  said  that  Guate- 
malans of  the  devout  type  recognize  three  hundred  and 
eighty-odd  separate  saints’  days,  each  of  which  should 
be  kept  as  a holiday  ! — and  were  encamped  upon  the 
plaza  by  the  hundreds,  each  little  group  squatted  about 
a tiny  fire,  upon  which  the  cooking-pots  were  steaming. 
All  were  in  gala  dress,  their  straw  hats  decorated  with 
flowers  and  round,  yellow  fruit  stitched  to  the  band. 

The  stores  were  thronged  with  people,  laden  down 
with  the  bulky  currency  of  the  pais . In  one  of  the 
shops  we  changed  an  American  twenty-dollar  banknote 
for  four  hundred  pesos  of  the  beautifully  engraved,  but 
often  dilapidated,  Guatemalan  paper,  and  I stuffed  the 
huge  bundle  inside  my  shirt.  The  keeper  of  the  tienda 
had  dealt  with  Americanos  before,  he  told  us ; in 
obedience  to  a command  his  daughter — the  most  comely 
girl  we  had  yet  seen  in  Guatemala,  by  the  way — brought 
out  a tin  cash-box  which  he  unlocked  with  a key  hung 
about  his  neck  by  a leather  thong. 

In  the  box  he  had  more  money  of  Guatemala  and 
tattered  bills  of  one-,  two-,  five-  and  ten-dollar  deno- 
mination of  the  United  States.  One  bill  attracted  my 
eye  and  I picked  it  up  curiously,  while  the  man  beamed 
upon  us.  It  was  a twenty-dollar  note  which  would 
have  been  worth  face  value — but  for  that  fateful  April 


AN  INTERRUPTED  SLEEP 


221 


day  of  1865,  when  Lee  surrendered  to  Grant.  Not  for 
worlds  would  I have  proclaimed  it  valueless — not  in 
Guatemala ! Confederate  notes  could  circulate  for 
years  in  the  stagnant  reaches  of  that  back-country,  and 
none  but  a gringo  recognize  their  true  ancestry. 

At  the  comandancia  we  turned  over  our  passports  to 
the  well-rounded  little  colonel,  but  when  he  asked  if  we 
had  had  any  trouble  on  the  trail  from  Concepcion  I 
assured  him  that  we  had  enjoyed  every  step  of  the  way. 
There  were  several  reasons  for  maintaining  silence  con- 
cerning our  adventure  of  the  afternoon.  The  famous 
penitenciaria  in  Guatemala  City  was  one.  We  had  no 
desire  to  be  clapped  in  jail,  charged  with  robbery  and 
murder,  perhaps,  of  peaceful  citizens  of  the  republic  ! 
So  we  wiped  our  memories  clean  of  untoward  incidents. 

The  Salvadoran  woman  relieved  us  of  eighteen  pesos 
when  we  returned  to  our  lodging-place,  so  I decided  that 
the  bundle  of  paper  within  my  shirt  wouldn’t  be  with 
us  long  enough  to  prove  a burden. 

We  waked  at  midnight  when  a tremendous  hammering 
was  set  up  at  the  locked  gate  leading  into  our  courtyard 
bedroom.  The  little  daughter  of  the  house  came  out 
rubbing  her  eyes,  and  unlocked  the  gate,  through 
which  clattered  a dozen  big  mules,  ridden  by  a troop  of 
travellers  of  both  sexes. 

They  were  laughing  and  chattering  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  and  several  began  to  shout  for  the  people  of  the 
house  to  bring  food  and  coffee.  At  last  the  Salvadoran 
woman  appeared,  very  angry  at  being  waked,  to  tell 
them  shortly  that  she  had  no  food  to  sell  them.  She 
shooed  them  from  the  courtyard  like  chickens,  they 
laughing  at  her  surliness,  and  when  the  gate  was  locked 
behind  them  we  fell  asleep  once  more. 

The  air  was  frosty  and  we  had  no  blankets.  We  tossed 


222  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


and  turned  in  the  thin  hammocks  for  a time,  then  got  up 
and  looked  about  for  shelter.  A great  pile  of  cornstalks 
covered  one  end  of  the  verandah,  and  by  burrowing  into 
these,  and  rolling  in  the  hammocks,  we  enjoyed  the 
warmest  night  since  leaving  Santa  Ana. 

At  three  o’clock  we  waked  and  stumbled  through  the 
darkness  toward  the  plaza.  Here,  lying  with  feet  ex- 
tended toward  the  embers  of  their  fires,  were  the  blanket- 
shrouded  figures  of  the  country-people,  a morgue-like 
array.  A drowsy  policeman  gave  us  directions  which 
sent  us  out  upon  a trail  that  promised  to  furnish  as  many 
perspiring  moments  as  any  we  had  yet  seen. 

A dusky  greyness  was  upon  the  landscape,  an  opaque 
mist  through  which  our  feet  groped  for  the  trail.  We 
slid  cautiously  down  breath-taking  slopes,  with  black 
masses  of  undergrowth  on  either  hand.  A stumble  might 
mean  only  a fall  upon  our  noses  over  a mole-hill  or — the 
chances  were  about  even — a tumble  over  a high  precipice. 
At  last  we  came  to  a gurgling  stream  in  the  valley-bottom 
and  paused  to  make  hasty  toilets.  A group  of  chattering 
girls  passed  us  at  the  ford,  halted  to  scoop  up  handfuls 
of  water,  then  went  striding  up  the  narrow  trail  we  had 
just  descended,  under  burdens  which  would  have  knocked 
either  of  us  in  a heap  within  ten  minutes. 

A faint  lightening  of  the  drab  curtain  in  the  east  soon 
made  going  better.  We  headed  up  the  slope  toward  the 
north  and  Chiquimula,  our  noses  wrinkling  rabbit- wise 
in  the  quest  for  the  first  faint  odour  of  boiling  coffee 
from  the  scattered  cabins  along  the  way. 

In  Central  America,  where  most  of  the  houses  are  built 
without  chimneys,  the  sight  of  smoke  belching  from 
every  interstice  of  a red-tiled  roof  is  no  matter  for 
thought  of  shrieking  for  the  fire  department ; it  is  a sign, 
merely,  that  culinary  operations  have  commenced. 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  CHIQUIMULA  223 

So  we  examined  thoughtfully  each  roof  we  passed. 
At  a little  hut  two  leagues  beyond  Quezaltepeque  the 
old  woman  who  was  the  only  occupant — if  one  excepts 
the  dogs,  the  pigs,  the  chickens,  parrots,  macaws  and 
vermin  which  inevitably  share  the  shelter  with  the  natives 
— had  just  risen.  She  offered  to  serve  us  coffee  and  cakes 
if  we  would  wait  until  her  fire  was  burning. 

The  roof  of  her  little  cabin  projected  in  front  to  form 
a rude  verandah,  and  under  this  shelter  she  had  placed 
a long  mahogany  table  near  the  clay  beehive  oven. 
Coffee  she  made  in  a blackened  earthenware  vessel, 
then  from  a crudely  woven  rush  basket  came  little  sweet 
cakes  of  mixed  corn-meal  and  wheat-flower. 

With  a black  cigarette  between  her  shrivelled  lips 
she  squatted  on  the  dirt  floor  of  the  verandah  near  our 
feet,  to  watch  us  eat.  Not  with  any  friendly  interest, 
but  to  tally  the  cakes  we  consumed.  Talk  she  would 
not,  as  she  sat  there  like  an  unusually  withered 
mummy,  with  dingy  black  mantilla  about  her  grizzled 
head. 

However,  when  Norm  had  finished  his  eleventh  cake 
and  I my  fourth,  and  we  reached  together  toward  the 
basket  for  a fresh  supply,  a flicker  of  apprehension  lit  up 
her  stolid  eyes.  Thus  far  she  had  seen  no  money,  and 
the  thought  that  we  might  decamp  without  settling 
for  our  meal  evidently  troubled  her. 

We  paid  our  score  of  six  pesos  and  sat  for  a time  on  the 
bench  before  the  cabin  to  watch  the  cargadores  jog  past 
under  great  back-loads  of  cornstalks  or  bunches  of 
greenish  bananas,  supported  by  tump-lines  across  the 
forehead. 

The  Spanish  blood  has  barely  leavened  the  masses  of 
Guatemala.  Pure  Indian  is  the  proletariat,  with  aqui- 
line features,  swarthy  colouring  and  glittering,  beady 


224  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


eyes.  In  disposition,  also,  they  remind  one  of  the  stolid 
savages  of  our  own  West. 

Each  man  turned  slightly  as  he  passed,  to  stare 
blankly  at  us,  but  returned  never  a word  to  our  greetings. 
These  packers  were  the  biggest,  sturdiest  breed  we  saw 
anywhere  in  Central  America  ; the  average  height  of 
both  men  and  women — there  seemed  little  difference 
between  the  sexes  in  muscular  development — was  not 
less  than  five  feet  nine.  All  were  very  broad  of  shoulder, 
with  barrel- like  chests,  and  their  necks,  constantly 
strained  against  the  pull  of  the  forehead  tump-lines, 
were  corded  with  muscle  like  the  necks  of  professional 
wrestlers. 

There  seemed  to  be  much  difference  of  opinion  among 
the  natives  as  to  the  distance  separating  us  from  Chiqui- 
mula.  Some  said  seven,  some  eight,  others  nine  leagues. 
We  had  set  our  hearts  on  making  Zacapa  by  noon  of 
Sunday,  and  this  was  Saturday  morning.  So  we  kept 
up  a steady  pace,  trying  to  ignore  our  blistered  feet. 
Our  boots  were  just  a half-size  too  large  for  comfortable 
walking  and,  despite  the  bandages  we  had  improvised, 
the  tops  of  our  feet  were  cruelly  chafed  and  bleeding. 

A young  Chinaman,  very  comfortable  and  contented 
upon  his  fat  mule,  smiled  blandly  down  upon  us  and 
informed  us  that  we  might  make  Chiquimula  by  evening — 
if  we  “ hurried  like  hell ! ” It  was  still  seven  leagues,  by 
his  account,  so  we  strode  on  grimly  under  a sun  that 
seemed  to  gather  the  heat  of  the  universe  and  focus  it 
in  a single  beam  upon  our  heads,  over  the  worst  trail  we 
had  yet  seen. 

We  had  been  warm  in  Costa  Rica  and  Nicaragua,  and 
on  the  Salvadoran  trails  we  had  believed  the  extreme  of 
heat  had  been  reached,  but  that  weary  day  was  the 
hottest  either  of  us  had  ever  known  in  any  part  of  the 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  GUATEMALTICOS  225 


world.  The  stony  paths  we  had  traversed  on  the  pre- 
ceding day  began  to  assume  the  aspect  of  perfect  highways 
in  our  memories,  as  we  stumbled  over  the  rough,  dusty, 
zigzagging  trail  up  and  down  those  endless,  endless 
mountains. 

Guatemalticos  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  thronged  the 
road  in  picturesque  procession,  returning  from  the  fiesta 
at  Quezaltepeque.  Some  were  astride  horses  and  mules, 
with  tiny  metal  or  earthen  coffee-pots,  heavy  woollen 
blankets  and  bundles  of  food  dangling  from  their  saddles, 
for  the  native  travelling  spends  but  little  on  hotel 
accommodations.  But  the  large  majority  were  afoot, 
carrying  their  equipage  on  head  or  back. 

They  travelled  in  groups,  the  people  of  each  village 
walking  together,  chattering,  laughing,  playing  practical 
jokes  upon  each  other,  nodding  energetically  so  that  the 
yellow,  gourdlike  fruit  and  the  flowers  which  adorned 
their  hats  shook  like  jesters’  bells.  Here  and  there  a 
dignified,  middle-aged  woman,  strikingly  Indian-like  of 
features,  bestrode  ancient  horse  or  mule,  with  a child  in 
her  arms  and  another  riding  pillion  behind  her,  and  led 
her  family  homeward.  The  older  children  marched 
sturdily  in  her  wake,  stirring  up  huge  clouds  of  dust 
with  their  sandalled  feet. 

The  Latins — and  the  peoples  upon  which  they  have 
placed  their  hands — seem  to  have  a sense  of  beauty,  an 
appreciation  of  it  evidenced  with  utter  lack  of  the  self- 
consciousness  of  the  average  American  or  Englishman. 
Keep  watch  upon  any  street  in  our  large  cities  and 
count  the  number  of  boutonnieres  seen.  From  personal 
observation  I know  the  number  will  be  small.  But 
all  the  way  north  from  Costa  Rica  we  had  passed 
stalwart  hombres  on  the  narrow  trails — dark-faced  men 
clad  usually  in  the  pyjama-like  overalls  common  to  the 
15 


226  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

peones — with  a brilliant  jungle-flower  thrust  rakishly 
behind  an  ear. 

Some  dim  groping  after  a little  of  the  beauty  so 
lacking  in  their  filthy  hovels,  their  whole  drab,  animal- 
like existence,  may  have  been  shown  by  the  instinct  that 
led  them  to  decorate  themselves  with  wild  flowers,  to 
crown  their  ox-yokes  with  blooms. 

But  they  showed  none  of  the  embarrassment  at  com- 
ment upon  the  ornaments  that  farmers  in  the  States 
would  evince.  (That  is,  if  our  prosaic  farmers  were 
guilty  in  the  first  place  of  such  show  of  sentiment !) 

We  overtook  a miniature  hombre  of  seven  years,  clad 
in  “ pyjamas  ” and  sandals,  with  a huge  sombrero  upon 
his  tousled  black  head  and  a small  machete  at  his  side. 
He  was  going  to  visit  his  grandmother,  he  said,  and  had 
been  on  the  road  since  daybreak.  Further  inquiry 
developed  the  fact  that  he  had  already  walked  twelve 
miles,  and  that  his  grandmother  lived  on  the  outskirts 
of  Chiquimula.  He  had  often  made  the  journey,  and 
saw  nothing  unusual  in  a hike  of  nearly  forty  miles. 

The  last  league  is  ever  the  longest.  Chiquimula  was 
always  “ just  around  the  corner ; cerquita  ! ” (“  Cerca  ” 
is  the  Spanish  equivalent  of  “ near,”  but  seldom  or  never 
did  we  hear  that  word  from  these  incorrigible  optimists. 
Almost  always  they  added  the  diminutive  “ ita”  and 
made  it — conversationally,  at  least — “ very  near.”) 

But  even  Chiquimula  is  eventually  attained  by  those 
who  limp  doggedly  onward.  Through  intense  sunlight, 
across  a land  of  billowing,  chalky  hills  untouched  by  culti- 
vation, over  the  rutty,  dust-choked  trail,  we  came  to  the 
usual  straggling  streets  lined  with  whitewashed  adobe 
houses.  There  was  an  hotel — of  a kind — close  to  the 
plaza  ; a boy  showed  us  to  the  bath-house,  then  we  ate. 

The  comandancia  was  more  pretentious  than  those  of 


THE  COMANDANTE  AT  CHIQUIMULA  227 

Concepcion  and  Quezaltepeque  ; for  Cldquimula  boasts 
ten  thousand  inhabitants  and  is  the  most  important 
place  in  the  south  of  Guatemala.  The  central  plaza 
was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  we  had  seen,  bordered 
with  feathery-topped  palms,  with  lines  of  squat,  tiled- 
roofed  buildings,  each  with  a broad  verandah  crowded 
with  lounging  citizens,  facing  it  on  the  four  sides.  The 
townspeople  were  hugging  the  shade  about  the  plaza  ; 
none  of  them  seemed  to  have  any  other  labour  in  life 
than  to  avoid  heating  their  blood  by  exercise.  From 
within  the  “ School  of  Manual  Arts  of  Manuel  Estrada 
Cabrera  ” came  a drowsy  hum  as  the  students  droned 
their  lessons  ; the  loudest  sound  in  all  the  town. 

A surly  lieutenant,  backed  by  two  ragamuffins  armed 
with  prehistoric  Mausers  which  might  have  been  loaded, 
barred  our  entry  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  the 
comandancia.  He  took  our  passports  and  later,  when 
we  had  tired  of  cooling  our  heels  on  the  verandah  and 
started  indoors,  ushered  us  into  the  sanctum  sanctorum, 
or  holy  of  holies,  and  so  before  the  Comandante  himself. 

This  official  was  a short,  stout,  shrewd-faced  Guate- 
maltico  of  middle  age,  uniformed  in  clean  unbleached 
linen.  He  rose  frcm  his  chair  as  we  entered  and 
bowed  very  courteously.  He  opened  out  our  passports 
and  inquired  as  to  the  weapons  we  carried.  For  a 
time  I took  refuge  behind  the  time-honoured  “ I cannot 
understand,”  but  after  the  matter  had  been  explained 
in  detail  with  profuse  gestures  by  Comandante,  secretary 
and  lieutenant  (the  latter  wished  to  shoot  us  offhand 
on  general  principles,  we  thought,  judging  from  his 
ferocious  eye),  I tapped  the  sheath-knife  at  my  belt 
and  murmured  “ Bastante  ! ” (“  Enough  ! ”). 

Now  the  Comandante  obviously  disbelieved  that  we 
had  faced  the  mountain  trails  of  the  unsavoury  Chiqui- 


228  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 


mulin  region  without  arms.  It  isn’t  done  in  the  best 
circles  at  any  season.  But  it  would  have  required  a 
search  of  our  persons  to  locate  the  six-guns  holstered 
beneath  our  left  arms,  and  he  was  not,  apparently, 
prepared  to  go  to  such  lengths.  So  he  shook  his  head 
sorrowfully  at  thought  of  our  duplicity  and  handed  back 
the  passports  with  a bow. 

The  shops  of  Chiquimula  were  the  weirdest  store- 
houses of  articles  native  and  articles  foreign,  of  objects 
useful  and  objects  which  no  brain-cudgelling  could 
supply  a prospective  use  for,  that  we  had  yet  encoun- 
tered. We  pushed  our  way  into  one  such  tienda  and 
looked  about  in  bewilderment,  for  from  floor  to  roof  was 
stacked  an  array  of  goods  ranging  from  coils  of  barbed- 
wire  to  rubber  baby-bottle  nipples.  It  looked  exactly 
as  if  the  shopkeeper  had  ordered  the  entire  contents  of 
a Montgomery  Ward  catalogue  and  had  secured  delivery 
on  the  ground  by  one  discharge  of  a steam-shovel. 

“ If  you  don’t  see  what  you  want,  ask  for  it,”  mur- 
mured Norm.  “ He’s  got  it.” 

So  I demanded  cigarette  papers — pa  pel  de  cigarro — 
and  the  languid,  yellow-faced  clerk,  without  a flicker 
of  change  in  his  expression  to  denote  consideration, 
thrust  his  arm  into  the  heap  and  drew  out  a red- 
wrapped  bundle,  from  which  he  extracted  a sheet  of 
paper  the  size  of  a small  blanket. 

“ Un  peso,”  he  grunted,  while  we  stared,  for  even  in 
that  fecund  soil  we  hadn’t  expected  to  see  cigarette 
papers  grown  to  such  dimensions.  Then  it  dawned 
upon  us  that  in  Guatemala  one  cut  one’s  cigarette  papers 
to  desired  size  from  the  raw  material. 

The  road  out  of  Chiquimula  was  a revelation — care- 
fully graded,  level,  wide,  but  traversing  the  same  arid, 
chalky,  sparsely  settled  hill-country  as  to  the  south. 


THE  PICTURESQUE  ROAD  TO  THE  NORTH  229 

It  was  fenced  by  the  tall,  candelabra-shaped  cacti  called 
tuno,  the  fallen  spines  of  which  rendered  taking  a seat 
beside  the  road  a matter  requiring  extreme  caution. 

As  we  left  the  outskirts  of  Chiquimula  we  were  joined 
by  a boy  of  fourteen,  who  insisted  upon  bearing  us 
company.  He  asked  innumerable  questions  about  our 
personal  affairs,  until  Norm  began  to  believe  him  sent 
after  us  by  the  Comandante  to  spy  upon  us.  He  wanted 
to  know  why  we  had  photographed  the  plaza  in  the  city 
when  we  wouldn’t  sell  the  pictures  ; why  we  were 
visiting  Guatemala  ; why  we  walked  instead  of  riding 
as  other  gringos  did.  His  thirst  for  information  was  the 
most  remarkable  we  had  encountered,  even  in  a land 
where  anybody’s  business  is  everybody’s  concern. 

It  was  cooler  than  in  the  morning,  so,  in  spite  of  the 
twenty-four  miles  lying  behind  us  on  the  white  road, 
of  which  our  weary  muscles  reminded  us  constantly, 
we  hobbled  forward  at  a fair  cripples’  gait.  Progress 
was  a matter  of  threading  our  way  through  the  mule- 
trains,  going  around  the  ox- carts  laden  with  huge  cakes 
of  crude  brown  sugar  and  cheeses  the  size  of  dining- 
room tables  bound  for  the  railway  station  at  Zacapa, 
or  stepping  aside  to  let  a troop  of  travellers — male  and 
female,  all  mule-back — pass  us.  It  was  a picturesque, 
busy  scene,  that  road  to  the  north. 

The  boy  led  us  over  a mountain  shoulder  by  a rough 
trail  which  he  assured  us  cut  a league  from  the  distance. 
We  found  the  view  from  the  height  well  worth  the 
breathless  climb,  for  below  us  the  white  road  curved 
leisurely  around  the  foot  of  the  great  shoulder  we  had 
ascended,  and  behind  lay  Chiquimula  like  a dream-city, 
every  sordid  touch  removed  by  distance,  the  white 
buildings  gleaming  like  snow  beneath  the  golden  light 
of  late  afternoon. 


230  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

The  short-cut  brought  us  out  upon  the  road  at  a 
higher  point,  and  at  an  open-faced  shed  which  served 
as  a military  post  the  boy  left  us.  Zacapa  lay  but  four 
leagues  beyond,  the  soldiers  told  us,  so  we  moved 
forward.  Around  the  next  curve  in  the  road  we  came 
out  upon  the  edge  of  a long,  steep  slope,  ending  far 
below  in  a broad,  green-floored  valley.  White  houses 
lay  in  the  hollow  beyond  a broad,  straight  stream  that 
glinted  like  a polished  rapier.  Zacapa  ! 

Sunset  came.  We  had  seen  many,  each  different 
from  the  one  before,  and  it  would  be  a dull  soul  that 
could  grow  sated  with  the  glories  of  a tropic  sunset : 
the  raw,  red  disk  of  the  sun  flaring  through  the  leaden 
mists  that  overhung  the  peaks,  the  clear  topaz,  the 
smoky  amber,  the  ochre,  the  umber,  the  turquoise  ; the 
unearthly  gold  of  the  scalloped  cirrus  clouds  hanging 
above  the  farther  mountain-tops  like  the  fabled  Golden 
Fleece,  for  the  moment,  then  paling,  with  the  fading  of 
the  light  behind,  to  delicate  violet  and  lilac  ! 

The  soft  haze  of  twilight  enveloped  the  road,  more 
lavender  than  grey,  as  we  went  down  the  slope  through 
the  peace  of  evening  to  a group  of  thatched  huts  that 
marked  a halting-place  of  the  mule-trains.  Dusk  was 
falling  as  we  reached  the  door  of  the  nearest  cabin  ; 
someone  inside  lit  a kerosene-lantern.  From  the 
interior  came  the  sound  of  laughter  and  talking. 

We  were  given  seats  at  an  unpainted  mahogany  table 
in  the  rude  verandah  of  the  rest-house.  A buxom  girl 
brought  us  pan  dulce  and  tamales  of  pork-fat  like  those 
of  Salvador,  and  cups  of  inky  cafe.  When  the  last 
crumb  had  vanished  we  turned  upon  the  bench  to  smoke 
and  watch  the  shifting  scene  in  the  dooryard  of  this 
wayside  halting-place. 

Again  it  was  as  if  I had  opened  the  pages  of  Kim  and 


A WAYSIDE  REST-HOUSE 


231 


sat  beside  him  in  one  of  the  paraos  beside  the  Indian 
roads.  But  on  closer  examination  the  scene  more 
nearly  resembled  a traditional  conception  of  a robbers’ 
den. 

Beside  tiny  fires  built  of  a half-dozen  twigs  each 
squatted  sandalled  men  and  barefooted  women,  cigar- 
ettes drooping  from  their  lips,  boiling  coffee  or  broiling 
long  strips  of  dried  meat  and  talking  at  the  tops  of 
their  shrill  voices.  The  red  glow  of  the  little  fires 
rendered  blacker  the  surrounding  darkness  that  was  as 
frame  and  background  to  the  picture,  struck  answering 
gleams  from  beady  black  eyes  and  illumined  the  bold, 
aquiline  features  transmitted  to  this  people  from  savage 
Mayan  forbears. 

Tortillas,  guaro  and  coffee  were  for  sale  inside  the 
house.  The  travellers  ate  and  drank  as  they  waited 
for  the  moon  to  light  them  on  their  way.  All  of  them 
imbibed  much  of  the  fiery  guaro  and  arguments  were 
frequent  among  the  members  of  the  various  groups. 
But  the  soberer  ones  separated  those  who  flashed  out 
their  machetes  in  sudden  gusty  rages  and  no  casualties 
resulted. 

Robberies  were  common  in  this  region  and  agents  of 
the  bandits  were  said  to  visit  such  wayside  rest-houses 
as  this  to  select  their  victims.  So  we  sat  with  shirts 
open  at  the  throat  and  revolver-butts  pulled  well  forward 
where  they  were  ready  to  hand,  while  we  waited  with 
the  others  for  the  white  moonlight  to  drive  the  shadows 
from  the  road. 

As  the  time  passed  the  arguments  about  the  fires 
grew  hotter.  There  was  hardly  a sober  member  of  any 
group  in  the  yard  ; staggering  men  stumbled  into  the 
house  for  more  guaro  and  stumbled  back  with  added 
fuel  for  their  comrades’  tempers.  A drunken  hombre 


232  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

planted  himself  on  the  bench  beside  me  with  many 
protestations  of  friendship  for  “ gringo  devils/’  and 
commenced  a long,  rambling  anecdote.  But  he  was 
barely  half-way  through  his  tale  when  he  fell  suddenly 
forward  in  a drunken  stupor. 

Undoubtedly,  some  part  of  the  heritage  of  the  average 
Anglo-Saxon  is  the  instinct  to  clean  up  a mess  wherever 
found.  Always,  as  we  watched  these  people,  there  rose 
in  us  a vast  disgust  at  the  depths  of  their  sloth,  which 
keeps  them  bedded  down  in  filthy  hovels,  ambition- 
less, future-less.  There  came  the  impulse  to  roll  up 
sleeves  and  start  immediately  at  the  work  of  reform. 
Always,  too,  came  the  thought,  “ What  couldn’t  the 
white  man’s  industry  and  perseverance  do  with  these 
countries  ! ” 

From  the  lips  of  other  wanderers  I have  many  times 
heard  that  same  exclamation  in  their  discussions  of  the 
Five  Republics.  A letter  from  Edgar  Young — who 
knows  the  land  of  the  Banana  Flag  as  he  knows  the 
fingers  of  his  “ operating-hand  ” — expressed  it  in  almost 
his  first  paragraph. 

Frankly,  I hesitate  to  voice  either  hope  or  despair 
concerning  the  future  of  these  countries — under  the 
rule  of  the  native  himself.  As  a people,  the  Latins 
have  no  such  record  of  reclamation  of  waste  lands  as 
their  fairer  brothers.  In  Mexico,  indeed,  the  Spaniard 
has  put  his  imprint  upon  the  people  almost  as  thoroughly 
as  the  Puritans  stamped  New  England.  But  we  see  in 
Mexico  to-day — and  in  Central  America  also — progress 
coming  principally,  if  not  wholly,  at  the  demand  of 
foreigners,  and  progress,  even  then,  limited  to  certain 
industries,  localities  almost ; progress  and  civilization 
virtually  rammed  down  the  throats  of  the  natives. 

In  the  United  States  I have  seen  the  negroes  of  my 


THE  FORD  OF  THE  RIO  ZACAPA  233 

own  Southland  dwelling  in  squalor  and  poverty  almost 
equal  to  that  of  the  miserable  Latin  American  peon,  but 
there  the  comparison  ends.  The  negro’s  low  condition 
is  the  exception,  not  the  rule,  nor  has  the  peon  an 
encircling  prosperity  and  example  of  industry  to  spur 
him  from  his  slough.  Nor,  with  all  justice  to  the 
Latinized  races  from  Mexico  to  Panama,  do  I think  the 
peon  stands,  as  did  the  negro  of,  say,  ten  or  fifteen  years 
ago,  ready  to  hold  up  his  head  as  a citizen. 

If  any  man  tells  me  that  even  sixty  per  cent,  of  the 
Guatemalticos  (for  instance)  are  “ civilized,”  I must 
shut  my  eyes,  visualize  the  land  as  I saw  it  and  the 
fierce-eyed,  hook-nosed  wanderers  met  with  upon  the 
mountain  trails,  then — smile. 

At  ten- thirty  we  drank  a last  cup  of  coffee  and  set  out 
with  the  vanguard  of  the  passengers.  The  dim  moon- 
light shining  through  the  rain-clouds  peopled  the  road 
with  fantastic  shadows  ; the  tall  cacti  threw  grotesque, 
wavering  figures  upon  the  white  dust ; the  outline  of 
trees  and  bushes  played  flickeringly  across  the  track 
before  us.  There  were  many  ox-carts  drawn  off  the  road, 
the  oxen  chewing  their  cuds,  the  drivers — sometimes 
whole  families — asleep  inside  beneath  an  improvised 
canopy,  all  waiting  for  daylight. 

It  was  nearly  two  o’clock  when  we  came  to  the  ford 
of  the  Rio  Zacapa,  a league  south  of  the  sleeping  town. 
The  river  gurgled  over  the  shallows  that  here  stretched 
a hundred  yards  from  bank  to  bank.  It  was  dark  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  that  lined  the  shore,  and  in  this 
dusky  alley  the  line  of  the  ford  was  none  too  distinct. 
A stillness  as  of  the  tomb  rested  over  all  the  slumbering 
land,  except  that,  far  behind  us  in  the  direction  of  the 
rest-house,  the  shrill  yells  of  drunken  peones  came  to 
us,  softened  by  the  distance. 


234  ACROSS  THE  ROOF  OF  SALVADOR 

A troop  of  men  and  women  on  mule-back,  all  very 
drunk  and  talkative,  trotted  past  us  and  splashed  into 
the  water.  We  undressed,  and  with  boots,  trousers  and 
underclothing  slung  across  our  hammock  rolls  stepped 
gingerly  into  the  chill  water  and  started  across.  I was 
perhaps  thirty  yards  in  the  lead,  placing  my  feet  very 
cautiously  to  avoid  deep  holes  and  with  the  sharp  stones 
that  paved  the  stream-bed  bringing  fresh  twinges  from 
chafed  feet.  Then  a frantic  yell  from  Norm  halted  me 
in  midstream.  I whirled,  nearly  tumbling  headlong, 
grabbing  for  the  six-shooter  atop  my  pack,  balancing 
like  a tightrope-dancer  against  the  breast-high  current, 
for  from  his  tone  I thought  some  sudden  danger 
threatened. 

“ Give  me  a match/’  he  demanded,  and  when  his 
cigarette  was  once  more  glowing,  led  the  way  with  very 
indecorous  whoops  to  the  farther  bank. 

We  squatted  upon  rocks  at  the  water’s  edge  to  don 
our  clothing  and — perhaps  because  of  our  very  excess  of 
caution — the  stone  upon  which  we  were  sitting  turned 
turtle  and  we  sat  down  most  ungracefully  in  a foot  of 
very  cold  water.  Our  nether  dampness  soon  ceased  to 
matter,  for  the  massed  clouds  that  obscured  the  moon 
let  down  a fine,  soaking  drizzle  and  we  were  wet  through 
to  our  skins  before  we  came  to  the  ghostly  outskirts  of 
Zacapa. 

From  end  to  end  of  the  town  we  wandered,  and  at 
last  sought  shelter  beneath  the  umbrella-like  foliage  of  a 
matapala  near  the  plaza.  Here  we  remained  until  dawn, 
with  curious  dogs  and  pigs  coming  up  to  sniff,  then  found 
a little  inn  where  repeated  hammering  upon  the  door 
brought  mine  host — shrouded  of  head  and  dragging  after 
him  a six-foot  smoothbore — to  let  us  in,  if  reluctantly. 

We  were  dog-tired,  for  we  had  walked  almost  steadily 


ZACAPA  AT  LAST 


235 


from  three  to  three — twenty-four  hours — and  had 
covered  more  than  forty-five  miles  of  mountain  trails. 
Our  feet  were  almost  skinless,  but  Guatemala  was  only 
eighty-odd  miles,  by  rail ; six  hours  on  the  little 
narrow-gauge  train  would  set  us  in  the  capital.  The 
end  of  the  real  trail  had  come. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

Notes  on  Missing  a Train — American  Cltjb  Salon — Sunburned 
Guatemala — Arrival  in  the  Capital — A Veteran  Soldier  of 
Fortune — Revolution  Simmers — We  become  Spies — The  Great 
Unionist  Demonstration — Outward  Bound — Puerto  Barrios 
and  a Steamer  Home. 

ZACAPA,  lying  on  the  trans-continental  railway 
midway  between  Puerto  Barrios  on  the  Caribbean 
Sea  and  Guatemala  City  in  the  mountains,  has 
two  trains  daily.  These  pass  each  other  with  consider- 
able ceremony  in  the  yards  of  Zacapa  at  midday,  when 
a brief  halt  is  made  to  let  the  passengers  get  luncheon 
at  the  town’s  principal  hotel. 

We  lounged  in  hammocks  in  the  patio,  observing  the 
waking  of  a typical  Guatemalan  inn  and  its  subsequent 
Sunday-morning  activities,  until  eight  o’clock.  When 
the  landlord  and  his  family  had  speeded  the  last  parting 
guest  through  the  impressive  gateway,  and  the  last 
jingle  of  saddlery  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  mine 
host  approached  us  with  cordiality  which  was  a sharp 
contrast  to  the  suspicion  he  had  displayed  at  our 
entrance.  He  explained  that  our  manner  of  arousing 
him  had  smacked  strongly  of  a bandit  raid,  but  now  he 
had  decided  that  we  were  respectable  citizens,  even 
though  foreigners.  A wave  toward  the  patio  dining-room, 
where  a mozo  had  just  set  out  steaming  coffee-pots 
concluded  his  amende. 


236 


ON  MISSING  A TRAIN 


237 


After  breakfast  we  bundled  our  possessions  in  a ham- 
mock. The  landlord  assured  us  that  the  up-train,  that 
for  the  capital,  pulled  out  of  Zacapa  station  at  one  in 
the  afternoon.  We  should  have  known  better  than  to 
accept  his  account,  but  we  sauntered  into  the  station  at 
half-past  twelve  and  looked  about  us. 

The  estacion  was  a two-story  frame  structure,  painted 
a familiar  yellow,  like  the  little  stations  of  South-west 
Texas  or  Arizona.  When  we  came  in  it  was  filled  with 
natives  who  sprawled  upon  the  benches,  squatted  on  the 
dirty  floor  among  their  bundles  and  baskets,  or  moved 
among  the  throng  in  search  of  something  or  someone,  I 
could  never  decide  which,  or  what. 

There  was  a train  drawn  up  before  the  platform  near 
the  verandah  of  the  hotel  which  fronted  on  the  tracks, 
from  which  passengers  came  and  went.  The  engineer 
smoked  placidly  in  the  cab,  with  feet  thrust  through  the 
unglazed  window.  But  it  was  the  down-train,  that 
for  Puerto  Barrios.  A mile  or  more  away  a black  plume 
of  smoke  floating  lazily  above  the  yellow  hills  marked 
the  course  of  the  up-train  we  had  missed  by  ten  minutes. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  letting  our  tempers 
get  away.  We  bought  tickets  for  the  morrow’s  train 
and  stood  for  a little  time  watching  the  crowd  of 
pasajeros.  In  Zacapa  we  noted  the  distinct  negroid 
strain  which  marks  the  region  about  the  railway,  due 
probably  to  the  assimilation  of  the  Jamaican  and  Hon- 
duran negroes  imported  by  the  Fruit  Company  to  labour 
on  the  banana  plantations  that  line  the  railway.  Many 
full-blooded  negroes  moved  among  the  Guatemalticos 
and  half-breeds,  most  of  them  well  dressed  and  very 
pompous  in  manner.  Whenever  a group  of  them  stood 
in  a shady  spot  discussing  grave  national  affairs  with 
the  dignity  of  European  statesmen,  there  rose  the 


238  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 


whining,  clipped  English,  almost  cockney ish  in  accent, 
which  marks  the  negro  of  British  possessions. 

For  the  rest,  Zacapa  was  busier  than  any  of  the  other 
Guatemalan  towns  we  had  seen.  A handful  of  Ameri- 
cans and  Britons  worked  in  the  railway-shops  here,  the 
Americans  in  the  employ  of  the  Fruit  Company  came  into 
town  frequently,  and  all  this,  with  the  sprinkling  of 
negroes,  seemed  to  energize  somewhat  the  slothful  mass 
of  native  blood.  The  white  streets — white  with  the  dust 
that  was  the  only  pavement ; white  with  the  lines  of 
one-story  adobe  houses  and  shops  ; with  a white  in- 
candescence that  lay  like  the  ray  of  a searchlight  over 
all  when  the  sun  was  at  meridian — ambled  toward  the 
town’s  outskirts  and  there  disappeared  in  the  yellow  land 
of  the  country.  The  heat  was  stifling,  withering.  Every 
bit  of  vegetation  which  should  have  been  green  was 
sickly  yellow  in  hue  ; the  leaves  of  the  stunted  trees 
hung  anaemically,  as  if  the  plant  gasped  for  air. 

A neat  sign  upon  the  front  of  a white  building  near  the 
estacion  caught  our  eye — “ The  American  Club.”  We 
crossed  the  street  and  entered  a long,  dusky  room, 
pleasantly  cool  in  contrast  to  the  blazing  glare  of  the 
street.  An  ancient,  stooping  white  man  stood  behind 
the  rough  bar,  dispensing  guaro  to  a trio  consisting  of 
two  parts  American  negro  and  one  part  Irish- American. 

Charley  Swanson,  the  proprietor,  greeted  us  and  set 
limonadas  on  a table  in  the  corner,  where  a tiny  air- 
current  came  in  from  the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 
The  negroes  eyed  us  curiously,  and  one  came  rolling  over 
to  explain  to  us  the  evil  effects  of  refrescos  (soft  drinks) 
upon  the  constitutions  of  “ Americans  ” in  the  tropics. 
His  manner  was  that  of  one  condescendingly  acknowledg- 
ing equals.  We  ignored  him  and  presently  he  returned 
to  his  companions  at  the  bar. 


GARRISON-  AT  CONCEPCION.  OUTSIDE  COIIANDANCIA. 


CHARLEY  SWANSON’S  “AMERICAN  CLUE  SALON,”  ZACAPA. 


238] 


AMERICAN  CLUB  SALON 


239 


Charley  had  beds  to  let,  canvas  cots  covered  with 
coarse  cotton  sheets  of  dazzling  whiteness.  We  tossed 
our  bundle  into  a corner  of  the  tiny  stall  allotted  to  us , 
snapped  the  lock  on  the  door  and  returned  to  the  bar- 
room, attended  by  the  negroes  who  had  accompanied 
us  to  our  dormitorio. 

The  larger  negro — he  who  had  invited  us  to  drink  with 
him — began  to  make  inquiries  as  to  our  past,  present 
and  future.  Both  negroes  were  half-drunk,  and  we  had 
no  desire  to  court  trouble  with  the  authorities  by 
squelching  him  a la  the  Southern  States.  But  he 
regarded  our  attitude  as  a personal  insult.  When 
he  shoved  a glass  of  guaro  across  the  table  at  Norm  and 
commanded  him  to  drink,  the  explosion  came. 

The  negro  skated  backward  across  the  bar-room  floor, 
to  slide  gently  to  a sitting  posture  with  back  to  wall. 
Here  he  lost  all  interest  in  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the 
devil,  for  an  iron  fist,  propelled  by  one  hundred  and 
eighty-odd  pounds  of  trail-hardened  muscle,  had  con- 
nected with  the  point  of  his  chin. 

His  companion  dragged  him  outside  without  comment, 
while  Charley  Swanson  stared  inscrutably  through  the 
door  at  the  yellow  slopes  of  the  farther  hills.  Apparently 
he  had  seen  nothing,  but  his  right  hand  rested  carelessly 
on  the  bar-edge  and  next  day  I saw  a long-barrelled 
Colt  upon  a cleverly  concealed  shelf  just  beneath  that 
spot. 

The  white  man  who  had  been  standing  with  the  negroes 
looked  at  Norm  with  unmistakable  respect. 

“ I’m  ‘ California  Jack’  Dempsey,”  he  informed  us 
suddenly.  “ Every  old-timer  knows  me.  I used  to 
fight  all  over  the  States.  So  I know  what  I’m  a-talkin’ 
about  when  I say  that  was  as  pretty  a knockout  as  ever 
I see  outside  a ring.” 


240  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

Thereafter  we  had  much  difficulty  in  avoiding  him. 
He  was  full  of  his  grievances  and  bubbling  over  with 
conversation.  He  had  come  to  Central  America  as 
blacksmith  for  the  Fruit  Company,  he  said,  and  they  had 
given  him  “ a crooked  deal,”  so  he  quit  them.  Of  the 
many  derelicts  and  beach-combers  we  met,  this  broken- 
down  prizefighter  was  the  most  unfitted  for  life  in  the 
tropics. 

Loud-mouthed,  obscene,  with  the  mentality  of  a 
grammar-school  boy  and  the  senseless  obstinacy  of  an 
army  mule,  he  possessed  a deep  contempt  for  the 
“ niggers  ” about  him.  Their  inability  to  speak  English 
he  regarded  as  a personal  affront,  for  which  he  could 
with  difficulty  be  persuaded  from  hammering  them. 
Even  Charley  Swanson,  who  termed  Spanish  “ monkey 
talk  ” and  insisted  upon  speaking  English  to  the  patrons 
of  his  combination  bar  and  grocery  store,  warned 
Dempsey  that  his  end  would  come  suddenly  from  a 
knife  between  the  ribs  if  he  persisted  in  his  wanton 
insults  of  the  natives  about  him. 

Charley  had  been  a cook  on  schooners  plying  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  his  twenty  years  of  wandering  in 
the  banana-lands  had  not  lost  him  his  skill.  He  set  out 
beefsteaks  and  hot  white  bread  from  his  oven,  with 
coffee  ( not  “ cafe  ”)  and  mango  pie  with  a crust  that 
melted  in  the  mouth.  Dempsey  went  out  to  a native 
house  to  eat,  then  returned  to  sit  in  a corner  and  curse 
the  country. 

Revolution  was  brewing  in  Guatemala — had  been 
simmering  for  a year.  Charley  was  cautious  in  his 
comment,  for  everything  he  owned  in  the  world  was 
within  the  walls  of  this  little  house  and  he  knew  the 
extent  of  the  secret  service  of  the  Dictator,  Estrada 
Cabrera.  Every  American  resident  for  any  length  of 


RUMOURS  OF  REVOLUTION 


241 


time  in  tlie  country  is  full  of  stories  of  the  mysterious 
band  of  adventurers  drawn  from  every  race  which  serves 
the  Dictator.  Cabrera’s  spy-system  is  another  favourite 
theme  of  conversation. 

“ Stand  upon  a street-corner  in  any  town  in  Guate- 
mala and  whisper  to  a companion  a remark  about  the 
government  of  Guatemala.  Instantly  a half-dozen 
blanketed  heads  will  be  raised  cautiously  and  a group 
of  blank-faced  Indians  who  had  been,  apparently, 
soundly  sleeping  will  rise  and  saunter  on  and — within 
an  hour — the  speech  will  be  in  the  hands  of  Cabrera. 
That’s  the  spy-system  of  Guatemala  ! ” 

So  an  American  of  phlegmatic  disposition  described 
it  to  us.  Charley’s  account  was  in  much  the  same 
vein,  and  he  added  the  information  received  by  him 
the  day  before  that  “ something  ” was  scheduled  to 
upset  the  peace  of  the  capital  within  a day  or  two. 

Despite  the  rumours  of  revolution,  we  slept  soundly 
that  night.  Charley  waked  us  at  dawn  for  breakfast, 
and,  when  his  little  daughters  had  cleared  away  the 
dishes,  went  about  his  daily  work.  We  watched  the 
bar  for  him,  selling  rice  and  black  beans  to  the  bare- 
footed women  who  came  padding  in,  guaro  to  the  men. 
Our  business  over  the  bar  was  much  larger  than  that 
in  household  goods  ; the  Guatemaltico  is  the  heaviest 
drinker  of  any  of  the  natives  of  the  countries  of  the 
Banana  Flag  ; one  saw  the  men — and  the  women,  also 
— sleeping  off  the  effects  of  their  liquor  in  every  shady 
spot  along  the  streets.  Practically  every  store  in 
Zacapa  also  held  a Government  licence  to  vend  guaro. 

A warning  whistle  from  the  station  at  noon  sent  us 
hustling  out,  followed  by  Charley’s  invitation  to  come 
again  and  stay  with  him  as  long  as  we  desired.  (This 
was  a shrewd  business  stroke  on  Charley’s  part,  for  the 
16 


242  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 


novelty  of  having  two  gringos  wait  upon  them  had  kept 
a steady  stream  of  men  and  women  coming  and  going 
through  the  doors  of  the  “ American  ” all  morning.) 

The  train  was  no  different  from  the  others  we  had  seen 
except  that,  perhaps,  the  third-class  coach — there  was 
no  second  class — was  dirtier  and  more  crowded.  For  a 
few  miles  beyond  Zacapa,  as  far  as  the  quarries  which 
employ  several  Americans  and  Englishmen,  the  track 
crossed  a level,  almost  arid  plain.  Here  and  there, 
standing  listlessly  in  the  scant  shade  of  thorny  bushes 
along  the  shallow  streams,  were  bony  cattle  tended  by 
apathetic  savoneras  on  short-barrelled  little  ponies,  who 
stared  apathetically  at  the  crawling  train. 

Up,  always  up,  trended  the  track.  In  the  station  at 
Zacapa  I had  invested  three  pesos  of  our  dwindling 
hoard  of  Guatemalan  billetes  for  three  bunches  of  the 
thin  cigarettes  of  the  pais,  which  melt  away  like  wax 
in  the  fingers.  We  sprawled  comfortably  upon  two 
seats,  as  usual — also  ignoring  the  “ No  se  fumar  permite  ” 
sign,  as  usual — and  watched  the  landscape  unroll 
outside  the  windows.  Water  seemed  to  be  the  crying 
need  ; the  parched  yellow  plains  reminded  me  poignantly 
of  the  Texas  prairies  in  drought-time. 

In  the  tiny  villages  we  passed — no  more  than  a half- 
dozen  mud  huts  along  the  track — the  people  came 
languidly  to  their  doors  to  stare,  and  the  tatterdemalions 
of  the  army  leaned  upon  their  weapons  while  they 
watched.  The  provincial  troops  were  pitiful  raga- 
muffins, armed  either  with  carved  wooden  guns  such  as 
that  of  the  sentry  at  Concepcion,  or  with  venerable 
long-barrelled  smoothbores  divided  in  a ratio  of  one 
gun  to  three  soldiers  ; one  bearing  the  gun,  one  the 
ramrod  of  telegraph  wire,  the  third  carrying  the  leather 
cartridge-box. 


ONE  OF  THE  POLICE  FORCE,  SALYADOli. 


ARRIVAL  IN  THE  CAPITAL 


243 


There  was  another  American  in  the  train.  He  knew 
the  capital  and  volunteered  his  services  as  guide.  His 
account  of  Guatemalan  affairs  occupied  us  during  the 
long  afternoon,  while  the  little  engine  puffed  and  panted 
over  the  mountain  grades.  Dusk  came  as  we  reached 
the  end  of  the  journey  and  the  train  went  crawlingly 
over  a high  trestle  spanning  a deep,  narrow  gorge. 

Two  white  domes  gleamed  in  the  twilight ; lights 
flickered  ahead  of  us  ; we  pulled  through  square  after 
square  of  ruined  buildings,  grim  reminders  of  the  earth- 
quake of  1917-18.  In  the  litter  and  desolation  we  saw 
hundreds  of  makeshift  shelters  of  cloth  and  heaped 
stones,  where  the  inhabitants  live  on  the  sites  of  their 
former  homes. 

At  least  a third  of  the  ninety  thousand  people  of  the 
capital  still  live  so,  for  the  work  of  rebuilding  goes  on 
very  slowly  ; almost  every  public  building  is  surrounded 
by  the  scaffolding  of  the  repair  parties,  where  handfuls 
of  labourers  gather.  Prior  to  the  earthquake,  Guate- 
mala City  was  known  as  the  “ Paris  of  Central  America.” 
Certainly,  in  point  of  size  and  the  number  of  Europeans 
and  Americans  residing  or  visiting  in  the  capital,  it 
would  ordinarily  be  one  of  the  most  pleasant  cities  of 
Latin  America  in  which  to  idle  for  a month.  So  much 
we  gathered  from  the  account  of  our  new  acquaintance, 
and  from  the  glimpse  of  the  town  we  got  in  the  trip 
from  station  to  Hotel  Grace. 

There  is  no  more  homelike  hostelry  in  the  Five 
Republics  than  the  Grace,  kept  by  Captain  Grace — 
ex-Texas  ranger,  civil  engineer  and  wranderer.  Here 
we  had  dinner  among  groups  of  our  own  kind — English, 
Americans,  French — dressed  as  conventionally  as  in 
any  restaurant  of  an  American  city. 

During  the  meal  Captain  Grace  located  us  a room  in 


244  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

the  Gran  Central,  and  when  we  had  finished  our  meal 
Rogers  guided  us  to  this  hotel.  As  we  entered  the 
long  passage  leading  from  street  to  patio,  he  pointed 
out  a big,  red-faced  man  in  grey  business-dress,  with  a 
Stetson  upon  his  white  hair,  who  leaned  against  the 
entrance-wall  chatting  with  a gaily  uniformed  army 
officer. 

“ Lee  Christmas,”  said  Rogers,  and  we  turned  for  a 
long  look,  for  the  name  is  one  to  conjure  with  through- 
out the  length  of  Central  America. 

Locomotive  engineer  originally,  but  for  years  revo- 
lutionist, power  behind  the  powers  of  various  republics, 
commissioned  general  in  the  army  of  Spanish  Honduras, 
military  adviser  to  Estrada  Cabrera  the  Dictator  of 
Guatemala,  born  leader  of  men,  Christmas  was,  to  me, 
the  most  interesting  character  in  all  the  Five  Republics. 

At  the  office  we  registered,  then  the  clerk  wrote  our 
names  upon  the  great  blackboard  in  the  patio  which 
served  as  room- directory.  Norm  nodded  toward  the 
board  and  I saw  that  Christmas’s  name  was  just  above 
ours,  as  occupant  of  the  room  adjoining. 

An  hour  later  I knocked  upon  his  door,  and  as  I 
waited  in  the  balcony  outside  his  room  there  came  to 
my  mind  a jumble  of  the  facts  and  fictions  current  about 
him.  Under  thin  disguise  of  fiction  “ 0.  Henry,”  who 
spent  some  time  in  Central  America  during  the  height 
of  Christmas’s  notoriety,  has  presented  “ El  General  ” 
to  his  readers.  Newspaper  correspondents  have  written 
columns  about  his  career  ; no  white  man  is  as  well 
known  in  the  republics  to-day  as  the  General.  I recalled 
the  stories  of  his  unsleeping  vigilance,  which  had  several 
times  foiled  attempts  upon  his  life  ; of  his  suspicion  of 
all  strangers  ; of  his  deadly  accuracy  with  rifle  and 
revolver. 


A VETERAN  SOLDIER  OF  FORTUNE  245 


Then  a deep-voiced  reply  to  my  knock  and  I entered. 
Christmas  was  not  visible  at  first,  but  when  I had 
closed  the  door  behind  me  I saw  him,  chair  tilted  back 
on  two  legs  and  leaning  against  the  sidewall  so  that  he 
could  see  anyone  entering  before  being  seen. 

My  first  impression  was  one  of  disappointment.  A 
big  man,  well  over  six  feet  and  of  portly  build,  dressed 
in  ordinary  civilian  garb,  with  hat-brim  pulled  down  so 
that  the  upper  half  of  his  florid  face  was  enshadowed  ; 
there  was  nothing  in  either  expression  or  appearance  to 
coincide  with  the  stories  concerning  Central  America’s 
most  noted  soldier  of  fortune. 

Despite  the  round,  unwinking  blue  eyes,  watchful, 
more  than  a trifle  suspicious,  unblinking  as  a hawk’s, 
he  was  far  more  like  some  peaceful  householder  finished 
with  the  day’s  work  than  a man  whose  very  life  depended 
upon  his  own  ability  to  hold  it.  A newspaper  lay  open 
across  his  knees  and  his  left  hand  gripped  nothing  more 
sinister  than  a pair  of  old-fashioned  silver-bowed 
spectacles. 

Then  he  came  to  his  feet  as  I gave  my  name  and 
explained  my  errand.  As  he  straightened  his  open  coat 
fell  back  a trifle  and  for  an  instant  the  brown  butts 
of  two  Lueger  automatics  peeped  out.  After  that 
glimpse  it  wasn’t  so  hard  to  believe  this  big,  quiet- 
spoken  man  to  be  the  desperate  leader  of  brown  fighting- 
men,  hero  of  a thousand  daredevil  exploits,  the  only 
white  man  who  ever  held  written  commission  as  field- 
general  from  Honduras. 

We  talked  of  his  career,  but  he  was  wondering  (he 
said  later)  if  I was  a spy  of  some  sort,  and  so  spoke  very 
cautiously,  confining  his  statements  to  generalities. 
When  he  mentioned  men  and  places  it  was  by  other  than 
their  proper  names,  for  some  of  these  men  were  still 


246  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

active  in  governmental  affairs  and — it  had  been  only 
a few  months  since  he  had  nearly  succumbed  to  a dose 
of  poison  slipped  into  his  food  by  an  unknown  enemy. 
(Christmas  always  insisted  grimly  that  he  had  no  known 
enemies.  “ They’re  all  dead/’  he  would  add,  a bit 
ambiguously.) 

He  came  strolling  over  to  our  table  in  the  patio  dining- 
room next  morning  and  dropped  into  a chair  opposite  us. 
After  the  meal  we  took  a turn  about  the  capital  and  left 
Christmas  outside  the  cuartel  chatting  with  some  of  his 
acquaintances  among  the  army  officers  while  we  went  to 
the  Ministry  on  a pessimistic  search  for  mail.  Our 
progress  had  been  much  more  rapid  than  we  (or  our 
commiserating  acquaintances)  had  believed  possible. 
We  had  outstripped  the  mule-trains,  which  are  the  most 
rapid  means  of  locomotion  on  the  trans-republics  trails. 
So  we  found  ourselves,  as  usual,  ahead  of  our  mail.  But 
we  had  come  to  accept  kinks  in  our  schedule  with 
placidity.  If  we  had  letters,  we  read  them ; if  there  were 
none,  why,  then,  we  occupied  ourselves  with  other  things. 

In  Guatemala  City  we  saw  the  ancient  and  modern 
rub  shoulders  in  more  conspicuous  fashion  than  any- 
where else  in  Central  America.  A half-dozen  automo- 
biles jolt  over  the  cobbled  streets  and  halt  at  the  corners 
to  let  a group  of  trotting,  chanting  cargadores  (packers) 
— each  of  whom  might  be  his  own  great-great-grand- 
father— jog  past  with  the  entire  furnishings  of  some  house- 
hold, or  a great  burden  of  country-produce,  upon  their 
backs.  A young  man  strolls  along  the  sidewalk,  arm-in- 
arm  with  his  father ; the  youth’s  clothing  might  have  been 
purchased  in  any  smart  shop  of  New  York  or  San  Fran- 
cisco, while  the  father’s  garb  is  the  straw  hat,  loose  shirt 
hanging  outside  his  trousers  of  faded  cotton  and  the  cow- 
hide sandals  of  the  'peon. 


THE  PACKERS’  GUILD 


247 


In  a carpinteria  a small  boy  is  wearily  turning  a band- 
lathe  that  might  have  been  running  since  the  Spanish 
Conquest,  while  a short  block  away  an  enterprising 
American  sells  brightly  painted  gasoline-engines  and 
caterpillar  tractors.  It  is  a place  of  light  and  shadow, 
of  sharp-drawn  contrasts  on  every  hand. 

The  cargadores’,  or  packers’,  guild  was  my  principal 
source  of  entertainment.  Men  and  women,  boys  and 
girls,  were  numbered  among  the  packers,  and  all  might 
have  been  members  of  the  same  family.  Every  one  of 
them,  from  the  most  aged  hombre  or  mujer  to  the  tiniest 
muchacho  or  niha,  was  marked  with  the  same  character- 
istics. 

A dozen  times  an  hour  they  came  jogging  past  the 
hotel-entrance  where  we  lounged  in  the  half-sunshine, 
half-shade,  that  makes  the  proper  combination  in  this 
city  of  high  altitude  and  intense  sunlight. 

Body  swung  forward  from  the  waist  and  swaying 
gently,  hips  moving  in  a half -rotatory  motion  as  the  feet 
come  forward  in  a pigeon-toed  trot,  there  is  about  them 
a rhythm  as  infectious  as  that  which  marks  a marching 
army.  With  a burden  upon  their  backs  so  heavy  that 
an  able-bodied  white  man  must  have  staggered  in 
carrying  it  across  a narrow  street,  they  keep  up  that 
machine-like  dog-trot,  half-run,  half-walk,  uphill,  down- 
hill, on  the  level,  all  day  long. 

Even  when  they  carried  no  burden,  the  trunk  bent 
forward  as  if  the  forehead  strained  against  an  invisible 
tump-line,  and  the  stiffened  arms,  hands  clenched  about 
a four-foot  bamboo  pole,  moved  from  side  to  side  before 
them  in  steady,  rhythmical  swing.  To  us  watching,  it 
was  labour  set  to  silent  music  ; one  might  almost  hear 
the  cadence  to  which  they  seemed  to  move.  Not  even 
the  coolies  of  Japan,  trotting  in  pairs  beneath  burdens 


248  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 


swung  on  long  poles  between  them,  can  equal  in  grace 
these  dark  Indian  cargadores  of  Guatemalan  trails. 

Beside  the  packers,  we  had  another  interest,  as  we 
waited  for  the  north-bound  steamer  to  arrive  in  Puerto 
Barrios.  Revolution — that  which  Charley  Swanson  had 
sniffed — was  coming  to  a head  in  the  capital.  The  city 
buzzed  with  rumours  of  an  uprising  planned  by  the 
Unionists.  Half  the  city  suspected  the  other  half  of 
nameless,  terrible  schemes,  and  none  knew  exactly  what 
Manuel  Estrada  Cabrera,  the  shrewd  doctor-politician 
who  had  ruled  the  country  for  more  than  twenty  years, 
intended  to  do. 

We  had  letters  of  introduction  to  Cabrera  and  various 
prominent  men  of  his  menage,  but  the  tension  in  the 
political  situation  made  us  consider  their  presentation 
somewhat  indiscreet.  We  put  them  away  and  merely 
watched  events,  with  Lee  Christmas  as  translator  of 
their  significance. 

As  the  former  military  adviser  of  Cabrera,  Lee  was 
suspected  by  the  Unionist  party,  while  the  Liberals,  the 
“ Ins,”  knew  that  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  Dictator, 
and  believed  him  to  have  joined  forces  with  the  young 
party.  So  he  was  watched  by  the  spies  of  both  parties. 
Lee,  to  whom  eventually  comes  every  shred  of  important 
information  about  men  and  affairs  in  the  Five  Republics, 
sat  placidly  in  the  patio  of  the  Central,  or  moved  with 
equal  placidity  about  the  streets,  talking  to  members  of 
both  factions  and  watching  affairs  with  the  academic 
interest  of  an  expert  chess-player  observing  a champion- 
ship game. 

It  was  his  fondness  for  practical  jokes  that  brought 
us  actively  into  the  revolution — more  actively,  at  any 
rate,  than  we  had  anticipated  or  desired. 

Our  ostensible  business  in  the  capital — or  lack  of  it 


WE  BECOME  SPIES 


249 


— was  known,  of  course,  to  both  the  American  and 
Guatemalan  authorities,  but  our  khakis,  boots  and  Stet- 
sons were  redolent  of  “ uniform  ” to  the  secret  police  of 
the  Dictator.  So  they  came  to  Christmas,  who  knew 
them  all,  to  ask  confidentially  our  real  errand  in  Guate- 
mala. Being  policemen,  they  refused  to  believe  that 
we  had  intentionally  spoken  the  truth. 

Lee  informed  them,  with  vast  and  terrific  secrecy, 
that  we  were  really  American  artillerymen,  come  to 
spy  out  the  weak  places  in  the  Dictator’s  military 
establishment. 

“ So  that  the  United  States,  when  it  attacks  Guatemala 
next  summer,  will  have  all  the  necessary  information,” 
concluded  Christmas,  and  the  policemen  nodded  wisely, 
for  they  had  expected  something  of  the  kind.  Give  a 
man  the  job  of  smelling  out  crimes  and  his  nose  must 
feed  itself  on  something,  and  he  will  manufacture 
mysteries  if  none  come  more  legitimately. 

Thereafter  we  were  no  sooner  out  of  our  little  stall 
in  the  Central  than  the  police  popped  in,  to  ransack  our 
luggage  in  search  of  incriminating  documents.  Their 
searches — later,  when  our  civilized  apparel  came  up  from 
San  Jose  and  we  doffed  the  garb  of  the  trail — much  in- 
creased our  laundry  bills.  F or  the  policemen  apparently 
expected  to  find  papers  sewed  up  in  our  collars  and  shirts, 
and  thumbed  them  very  thoroughly  with  grimy  paws. 

We  began  to  feel  like  Mr.  Prout — hedged  about  with 
mysteries  and  enclosed  in  an  atmosphere  of  stealthy 
intrigue — but  regarded  the  dogging  of  our  footsteps,  the 
ransacking  of  our  room,  as  annoying,  but  still  Comedy. 
We  laid  many  unsuccessful  traps  in  the  attempt  to 
corner  the  searchers,  promising  ourselves  the  satisfaction 
of  administering  a business-like  pounding  ; Norm  swore 
that  he  would  shove  them  between  the  bars  of  the  window 


250  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

and  let  ’em  drop  to  the  pavement  below.  This  was  on 
the  day  when  they  had  left  black  fingerprints  on  his  last 
clean  collar,  at  a time  when  the  laundress  had  taken 
furlough  and  he  wished  to  pasear  in  the  plaza  where 
gathered  the  senoritas  with  their  duennas.  . . . 

But  when  on  the  way  home  from  the  Grace  one  night, 
after  a session  with  Rogers  and  Captain  Grace,  a big 
touring  car,  with  no  lights  burning,  leaped  suddenly  and 
directly  at  us,  gathering  racing  speed  as  it  came,  and  we 
saved  ourselves  only  by  a frantic  leap  to  the  innermost 
edge  of  the  sidewalk,  the  thing  began  to  look  serious. 
Melodrama  it  might  seem,  regarded  from  the  cool  and 
distant  States,  but  these  people  live  in  an  atmosphere 
of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  and  assassination  of  enemies 
of  the  Government  was  by  no  means  uncommon. 

After  the  “ accident  ” of  the  touring  car,  we  were  more 
cautious  in  our  comings  and  goings  ; we  hugged  the  walls 
of  buildings  at  corners  and  swung  wide  of  dark  doorways. 
Our  six-shooters  we  retained  even  when  our  trail-outfits 
were  packed  away,  in  holsters  under  our  coats,  and  we 
berated  Lee  Christmas  for  setting  the  secret  service  on 
our  heels.  He  laughed  uproariously  and  told  us  that  it 
was  education  for  us  ; we  would  be  better  men — if  we 
survived. 

Again  coming  from  the  Grace,  one  pitch-dark  night 
nearly  a week  later,  we  crossed  a narrow  street  near 
the  American  Legation  and  had  made  the  opposite  side 
when  from  behind  us  sounded  revolver-shots.  Bullets 
thudded  into  walls  somewhere  behind  us  and  we  dived 
into  a doorway  with  the  motions  of  a prairie-dog  seeking 
sanctuary. 

When  we  peered  cautiously  out  from  the  shadow  and 
looked  in  the  direction  from  which  the  shots  had  come, 
there  was  nothing  to  see.  Not  a soul  moved  in  the 


REVOLUTION  SIMMERS  251 

street  in  either  direction,  nor  had  the  firing,  apparently, 
attracted  any  attention. 

We  waited  a long  ten  minutes,  then  decided  that  the 
sniper  must  have  held  his  gim  to  the  wall  at  the  opposite 
corner  and  fired  blindly,  in  native  fashion,  as  fast  as  he 
could  pull  trigger.  Evidently,  after  noting  his  failure 
to  do  more  than  frighten  us  half  out  of  our  wits,  he  had 
taken  to  his  heels  in  the  opposite  direction. 

So  we  made  for  the  Gran  Central  as  fast  as  mere  legs 
could  carry  us,  and  at  the  very  next  corner  all  but 
collided  with  a uniformed  policeman  of  the  town,  who 
smiled  blandly  upon  us  and  wished  us  buenas  noches. 
Publishing  the  affair  would  gain  nothing,  but  out  of 
curiosity  I asked  the  limb  of  the  law  if  he  had  heard 
firing  a moment  before.  He  shook  his  head  without 
appearance  of  interest. 

“ No,  senor,”  he  said. 

The  Unionist  Party  had  little  success  in  their  attempt 
to  deceive  Cabrera  as  to  the  real  intent  of  the  organiza- 
tion. A union  of  the  Five  Republics  has  been  a 
favourite  topic  of  discussion  with  theorists  since  the  last 
federation  fell  to  pieces  in  1838 ; parties  with  this 
purpose  for  their  platform  have  been  organized  in  one  or 
other  of  the  republics  at  various  times,  and  have  accom- 
plished nothing.  Whether  the  leaders  of  the  Unionistas 
in  Guatemala  really  planned  a coalition  of  the  Banana 
Republics,  none  but  themselves  can  say  ; at  any  rate, 
Cabrera  must  be  overthrown  before  Guatemala  could 
enter  into  such  a union.  So  the  Dictator  extended  the 
hospitality  of  the  State  to  the  party-leaders.  Several 
of  them  were  escorted  to  the  cells  of  the  famous  peni- 
tenciaria,  where  they  languished  at  the  time  of  our  stay 
in  the  capital. 

The  next  move  of  the  Dictator  was  to  brand  the  move- 


252  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

ment  as  a Bolshevist  uprising  and  attempt  to  ram 
through  Congress  a word-for-word  translation  of  the 
American  Alien  Sedition  Bill,  for  use  against  the  party. 

Then  came  approval  by  Congress  of  the  plan  for  the 
federation  of  the  Central  American  Republics,  and  on 
March  eleventh  the  leaders  of  the  Unionist  Party 
declared  a holiday  and  a celebration.  Each  party- 
member — and  the  Unionists  claimed  a strength  of  some 
sixty  thousand — was  ordered  to  report  at  the  Unionist 
headquarters  to  join  the  parade. 

With  American  and  British  diplomats  I watched  the 
crowds,  looking  particularly  for  drunken  men  and  men 
bearing  arms.  Norm  was  wandering  on  his  own  account, 
with  the  kodak,  while  Lee  Christmas  disappeared  early 
in  the  afternoon. 

While  we  stood  watching  someone  pulled  at  my  sleeve, 
and  I turned  to  see  an  American  negro,  Santiago  Scott, 
very  drunk  and  very  serious,  who  was  the  janitor  of  the 
Unionist  Club.  With  that  assumption  of  portentous 
gravity  that  sits  so  ludicrously  upon  the  faces  of  his 
race,  he  led  me  into  a little  drinking-shop  opposite  the 
American  Legation,  to  show  me  a large  cartoon  he  had 
drawn. 

It  represented  Cabrera  as  His  Sable  Majesty,  with  a 
forked,  barb-ended  tail  upon  which  two  small  but  very 
active  figures,  labelled  “ Unionistas,”  were  dancing. 
Santiago  was  immensely  proud  of  his  handiwork,  and 
pointed  out  its  various  shades  of  meaning.  Then  he 
drew  from  an  inside  pocket  a gilded  plaque  bearing  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty  upon  the  face,  and  upon  the  reverse 
a conventional  triangle  with  the  liberty-cap  and  the 
words  “ Dios , Libertad,  Union  ” (“  God,  Liberty, 
Union  ”)>  which  he  claimed  to  have  designed  for  the 
party. 


GREAT  UNIONIST  DEMONSTRATED  253 


The  cantina  in  which  we  stood  was  reported  to  be 
operated  by  the  Dictator  at  a loss,  to  provide  a base 
opposite  the  American  Legation  for  his  spies.  I thought 
of  this  suddenly,  when  in  the  crowd  about  us — Liberals, 
to  a man — I saw  the  faces  of  two  men  who  had  been 
pointed  out  the  day  before  by  Christmas  as  secret 
service  agents.  They  were  craning  their  necks  to  see 
Santiago’s  exhibits. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Santiago  was  not  the  best 
companion  that  afternoon  for  a young  man  with  no 
hankering  for  trouble,  so  I extracted  from  him  a promise 
to  bring  the  cartoon  to  the  hotel  that  evening,  then 
went  hastily  outside  to  resume  my  watch  upon  the 
crowds. 

The  mixed  nature  of  the  crowd  was  particularly 
interesting.  Prosperous  merchants,  bankers,  lawyers, 
physicians  and  their  families,  rubbed  elbows  with  the 
clerks  and  the  labourers.  The  universal  representation 
might  have  been  taken  as  proof  of  the  popularity  of  the 
Unionists  or — as  one  chose — the  natural  instinct  of  the 
native  which  leads  him  to  any  scene  of  excitement 
present  or  promised.  All  the  faces  were  rather  grave, 
for  none  knew,  that  sunny  afternoon,  but  what  the 
machine  guns  of  Cabrera  might  be  turned  upon  the 
crowds  before  the  night. 

The  parade  began  to  move  at  three  o’clock,  its  destina- 
tion the  Military  Academy,  where  Congress  meets.  The 
fifty-odd  leaders  were  in  the  van,  marching  under  a blue- 
and-white  banner  upon  which  was  emblazoned  the 
triangular  shield  of  the  country  with  the  words,  “ God, 
Liberty,  Union,”  of  Santiago’s  plaque. 

Then  came  the  obreros — the  workers — in  files  of  eight, 
totalling  approximately  twenty-seven  thousand  men  and 
youths.  Counting  the  men  and  women  who  applauded 


254  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 


fervently  from  the  sidewalks  or  thronged  about  the 
flanks  of  the  procession,  there  were  fully  fifty  thousand 
sympathizers  in  the  streets  that  day. 

They  marched  quietly  in  tne  main,  if  not  with  over- 
much gravity.  In  the  faces  of  the  younger  men,  at 
least,  the  grimness  I had  noted  earlier  in  the  afternoon 
had  given  way  to  a dancing  devil  of  excitement,  and 
I wondered  what  would  be  the  result  if  the  leaders  lost 
control,  even  for  a moment,  of  these  men  of  ancient 
Indian  stock,  of  simple,  primitive  instincts. 

At  the  Military  Academy  the  leaders  of  the  parade 
were  admitted  to  the  Hall  of  Congress,  but,  as  a subtle 
insult,  through  the  back-door,  as  if  they  were  peones. 
The  President  of  Congress  accepted  the  thanks  of  the 
Unionists  for  the  passage  of  the  Bill  approving  the 
union  of  Central  American  Republics  and  consented  to 
address  the  party-members  outside  the  gate. 

At  the  front  door  of  the  Academy  the  legislators  were 
halted  by  a group  of  soldiers  in  civilian  clothing,  who 
were  posted  there  as  “ peaceful  citizens  interested  in  the 
making  of  their  country’s  laws.” 

These  men,  who  were  said  to  be  plied  all  day  long 
with  gnaro,  at  Government  expense,  were  reputed  to  be 
present  whenever  Congress  was  in  session,  their  purpose 
being  to  prevent  any  demonstration  unfavourable  to 
the  Dictator.  Now  they  surged  about  the  Solons, 
refusing  to  let  them  pass  to  the  front  portico  of  the 
building. 

The  President  of  Congress  was  no  weakling.  He 
forced  his  way  through  the  soldiers  and  called  upon  the 
other  congressmen  to  follow.  The  soldiers  hesitated  for 
a moment,  then  drew  from  their  pockets  the  red  calico 
chevrons  which  transform  ordinary  civilian  attire  into 
uniform,  and  pinned  them  on.  Then,  with  coats  thrown 


MILITARY  ACADEMY  (ALSO  HOUSE  OP  CONGRESS),  BEFORE,  REBUILDING, 
GUATEMALA  C.TY. 


PUBLISHING  A “ BANDO.” 

( Reading  bu  a Government  official  at  street  corners  a Decree  just  passed  bit  Congress  and  approved  by  tie 
President.  This  “ bando  ” teas  the  measure  approving  union  o]  Central  American  Republics,  March 
12,  1920.) 


254] 


SHOTS  FIRED 


255 


back  to  reveal  their  weapons,  they  came  to  the  outer 
portico  and  took  up  station  behind  the  members  of 
Congress  and  the  Unionist  leaders,  who  stood  beside  the 
Spanish  Minister  and  the  members  of  the  various 
legations. 

The  crowd  in  the  street  surged  toward  the  gate  in 
order  to  hear  the  coming  speech.  A Government 
official,  a man  charged  with  many  crimes,  cried  out : 

“ Why  don’t  you  stop  them  ? Why  doesn’t  someone 
shoot  « ” 

Almost  with  his  words  came  the  sound  of  a revolver- 
shot.  While  none  in  the  group  could  say  who  actually 
first  pulled  trigger,  the  shot  came  from  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  a colonel  in  the  regular  army  of  Guatemala, 
who  had  been  standing  with  drawn  revolver. 

The  foreign  diplomats,  with  the  members  of  Congress 
and  the  leaders  of  the  Unionists,  now  stood  between 
two  prospective  fires — that  of  the  soldiers  behind  them 
and  of  the  Unionists  at  the  gate,  who  might  be  armed 
and  who  could  hardly  be  expected  to  stand  tamely 
under  fire  without  returning  it.  The  soldiers  on  the 
portico  began  firing  in  ragged  volleys,  most  of  their 
bullets,  fortunately,  going  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd. 

Then  one  of  the  attaches  from  the  American  Legation 
seized  the  official  who  had  precipitated  the  firing  and 
demanded  that  he  give  the  order  to  cease.  The  official 
gasped  out  the  command  and  the  soldiers  lowered  their 
revolvers  sullenly.  One  Unionist  was  killed — he  was 
afterwards  buried  in  a soldier’s  uniform  and  officially 
proclaimed  a victim  of  the  barbarous  Unionists,  even 
while  his  family  still  searched  for  the  body  ! — and  a 
little  girl,  and  a dozen  or  more  were  wounded  In  the 
streets  near  the  Academy,  shortly  after  the  cessation 
of  the  fire,  as  we  went  back  toward  town,  we  saw  men 


256  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 


and  women  limping  away  from  the  scene,  with  blood 
dripping  from  bullet-wounds. 

Just  after  the  firing  was  halted  the  market-women — 
staunch  Unionists  all — seized  cobble-stones  from  the 
street  and  raged  up  and  down  before  the  gates  of  the 
Academy  like  dusky  furies,  black  hair  flying  and  thin 
camisas  slipping  back  over  their  brawny  brown  shoulders 
as  they  hurled  the  jagged  stones. 

“ Follow  us ! ” they  were  yelling,  so  that  we  heard 
them  above  the  other  cries  of  the  crowd.  “ Let’s  take 

their  old  Academy.  Follow  us ! We’ll  lead 

you  ! ” 

But  the  Unionists  fell  in  again  at  their  leaders’  com- 
mands and  marched  back  to  the  city,  now  and  then 
raising  a cry  of  “ Hurrah  for  the  Little  Party  ! Remem- 
ber our  first  blood  ! ” 

The  city  was  quiet  on  the  surface  that  evening,  with 
a tenseness  in  the  atmosphere  wherever  one  turned. 
The  people  didn’t  gather  upon  the  streets,  for  Cabrera 
had  made  no  move  and  none  knew  what  he  might  do. 
In  the  headquarters  of  the  Unionists  a throng  of  irre- 
pressibles gathered  and  this  was  the  noisiest  spot  we 
saw. 

We  sat  with  Lee  Christmas  in  the  patio  of  the  hotel 
that  evening,  and  the  negro  Santiago  Scott  came  in 
and  passed  our  table  without  seeming  to  see  us.  His 
lips  moved  steadily  and  we  could  hear  him  muttering 
to  himself  as  he  sat  down  in  a chair  behind  a table  in 
the  corner  with  back  to  wall.  He  was  drinking  heavily, 
but  it  seemed  to  work  no  diminution  in  his  habitual 
watchfulness.  Christmas  said  that  the  police  had  been 
looking  for  Santiago  during  the  afternoon. 

As  we  watched,  three  secret  service  agents  entered 
the  patio  and  approached  the  negro’s  table.  When 


SANTIAGO  AND  HIS  PURSUERS  257 


they  were  still  fully  ten  yards  distant  he  jumped 
suddenly  to  his  feet  and  yelled  at  them  to  keep  back. 
They  retreated  hastily  and  left  the  patio,  to  return  a 
few  minutes  later  with  three  uniformed  policemen. 

Seemingly,  they  had  little  desire  to  face  Santiago  very 
close.  Christmas,  watching  the  scene  with  unblinking 
blue  eyes,  explained  that  the  negro  was  known  to  be 
a killer,  which  gave  the  clue  to  the  hesitation  of  the 
policemen.  They  had  halted  in  the  centre  of  the  patio 
as  if  undecided  as  to  the  safest  method  of  proceeding. 
They  reminded  me  vividly  of  a gang  of  small  boys 
inspecting  a hornets’  nest. 

Santiago  settled  the  matter  for  them.  The  liquor 
he  had  consumed  seemed  to  be  working  him  into  a 
berserk  mood.  Suddenly,  with  an  ear-splitting  war- 
whoop,  he  swept  glass  and  bottle  to  the  stone  floor  and 
came  to  his  feet.  A flat-footed  leap  carried  him  to  the 
top  of  his  table,  reaching  beneath  his  coat-tails  as  he 
jumped.  From  each  hip-pocket  came  an  automatic 
pistol  of  -45  calibre  and  these  he  spun  upon  his  fore- 
fingers and  trained  upon  the  policemen. 

“ Gangway  ! ” he  yelled.  “ Gangway  ! I’s  cornin’, 
an’  when  I comes  I comes  a-shootin’.” 

The  policemen  took  him  at  his  word — or  rather  at 
his  gesture.  From  where  we  watched  nervously — I 
speak  for  Norm  and  myself,  for  Christmas  seemed  more 
interestedly  expectant  than  anything  else — from  beneath 
our  table,  we  saw  the  policemen  heading  for  the  street. 
They  were  pointed  for  the  Mexican  border,  and  if  they 
kept  up  the  speed  at  which  they  started,  Texas  now  has 
six  new  Guatemaltican  residents. 

Sometime  after  midnight  Santiago  applied  to  the 
American  consul  for  protection,  offering  his  bullet- 
pierced  straw  hat  as  evidence  that  his  life  had  been 
17 


258  THE  PARIS  OF  CENTRAL  AMERICA 

attempted,  and  stating  that  he  had  “ got  ” one  of  the 
attacking  party.  Then  the  Unionists  hustled  him  out 
of  town  and  we  saw  no  more  of  him. 

We  had  exhausted  the  show-places  of  the  capital. 
The  various  Government  buildings,  with  their  clutters 
of  scaffolding  ; the  parks  and  plazas  ; the  relief  map  of 
Guatemala  showing  in  concrete  the  mountains — we 
knew  these  well ! — the  rivers  and  the  plains  : we  had 
seen  them  all  and  now  we  were  anxious  to  be  on  the 
Out  Trail  before  revolution  actually  broke  and  made 
departure  more  difficult. 

Once  more  we  boarded  the  little  train,  this  time  to 
get  down  at  Puerto  Barrios  on  the  Caribbean  Sea.  Our 
departure  would  have  been  incomplete  had  we  not 
stepped  into  a final  tangle  of  official  red-tape,  to  remind 
us  of  all  we  had  ever  experienced  of  Central  American 
formalities. 

We  found  the  visa  secured  from  the  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs  in  the  capital  was  not  enough  to  clear  us  from 
the  port.  Before  we  could  embark  on  a steamer,  the 
Comandante  must  telegraph  to  Guatemala  City  and 
receive  authority  to  issue  us  sailing-permits. 

A brief  hour  before  sailing-time  the  reply  came — 
collect.  We  paid  twenty  pesos  each  for  a slip  of  paper 
which  the  dock-sentry  took  from  us  without  so  much 
as  glancing  at  it,  then,  after  customs- inspection,  climbed 
the  gangway  to  the  Suriname  s deck. 

The  last  bunch  of  green  bananas  came  up  the  con- 
veyor-belts and  dropped  into  the  hold,  the  lines  were 
cast  off,  and  midnight  found  us  nosing  out  of  the  pretty 
harbour,  with  New  Orleans  somewhere  “ over  the  bow.” 
We  leaned  on  the  after-rail  and  watched  the  lights  of 
Puerto  Barrios  dropping  behind  the  lacy  fronds  of  the 
palms,  and  heaved  sighs  of  mixed  relief  and  regret. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 


259 


The  trail  now  lay  behind  us.  Narrow,  hoof-marked 
track  that  threaded  emerald  jungle,  where  the  chattering 
of  monkeys,  the  shrill  cries  of  parrot  and  macaw  alone 
broke  the  deathly  stillness  ; faint,  dusty  camino  that 
crossed  like  a white  rope  the  bare,  brown  plains,  where 
overhead  the  zopilotes  hung  motionless  against  the 
cloudless  blue  and  the  high  wind  of  the  level  spaces  set 
parched  grass  quivering ; ancient,  hard-trodden  mule- 
path  that  climbed  insanely  with  serpentine  loop  and 
whirl  up  and  ever  up  the  slopes  and  scarps  of  red-black 
mountains  piled  range  after  range  against  the  far 
horizon.  We  looked  back  on  all  our  way  and  knew  that 
we  would  remember  always. 

But  when  I dropped  my  cigarette  into  the  foaming 
water  under  the  Suriname  s counter  and  turned  to  Norm 
to  ask  if  retrospect  surpassed  prospect,  he  grinned  and 
blew  a lingering  kiss  toward  the  dimming  harbour-lights. 

“ Adios  ! ” said  Norm  very  emphatically.  “ Es  el 
fin  ! ” 

Since  here  we  come  to  the  forking  of  the  trail,  I can 
only  echo  his  words  and  give  you — 


THE  END 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
by  Hazel l,  Watson  &■  Viney,  I.d., 
London  and  Aylesbury. 


Date  Due 


<f) 

